#nostra!sans & reader

[imtrashraccoon]

And here we are! I wrote this oneshot for @wendelin-utt as a prize for being so dedicated to booping everyone during the April Fools event. (Shut up, it is not fifteen days late!) They requested MC being isekaied and meeting Nostra.

Nostra is owned by @megalommi

Partially inspired by an audio by @improvidence318 and a oneshot by @aka-indulgence

Thank you! (I apologize if tagging any of you was annoying!) 乁⁠(⁠ ⁠•⁠_⁠•⁠ ⁠)⁠ㄏ

My Papa is a Hypnotist...and a Mobster?!

SkeletonChild!Reader & Nostra (Platonic if it wasn't already obvious.)

Word Count: 4,558

Our story begins in a dark room. It could be a bedroom or an office, but sitting in front of a desk, framed by the glow of their computer monitor is our protagonist.

And what are they doing at this ungodly hour you might ask? Well, dear reader, they are dedicating their very last moments to what will become a life changing event.

And the name of that event? The Boop-meter.

Overnight, their favourite hellsite had gone wild with the concept of...booping. You press a button and your target gets booped with a virtual kitty paw.

Truly a revolutionary idea.

Our protagonist has been clicking away at their computer for hours by now. Their goal? To achieve the coveted status [TUM BLR] and max out as many Boop-meters as they can at the same time.

Why? Well, clearly the site admins gave them too much power. Bapping strangers with hundreds upon hundreds of kitty paws without having to leave the comfort of your home? Well, no mortal alive could resist such an allure.

Ding!

That wasn't the sound of a Revenge Boop.

It seemed someone had sent you an Anonymous Ask.

"Do y0u bEli3ve iN 0thEr wor1ds?"

You snickered. No one used leetspeak unironically anymore and it was such a random question too. Your nimble fingers flew across the keys as you typed out an appropriately silly response.

"Sure, if it means Nostra exists somewhere! My life would be complete if I could get the chance to meet him!"

You went back to the vigorous tapping that maxing out these Boop-meters all but required. A few minutes later though, you received another ask.

"Bo0p!"

It occurred to you that when you set up your blog, you had forgotten to enable asks. So how had this Anon gotten through...?

Suddenly, there was a blinding flash of light from your computer.

Everything went black...

~ - < ฅ⁠^⁠•⁠ﻌ⁠•⁠^⁠ฅ > - ~

Where were you?

No matter how much you tried to blink them away, your vision was covered in bright spots.

The first thing you noticed was that you were outside in an alleyway. The second thing was that the world seemed so much bigger than before.

You could hear sounds of a struggle and when you looked around, spotted three figures in suits kicking another on the ground. It was then that you noticed that you were sitting in a pile of...ash? It stuck to your clothes and irritated the gaps in your bones.

Bones...

Why...were you a skeleton...?

Your ribcage hurt and it felt like your soul was going to burst.

This wasn't real. It couldn't be real.

All of the fanfiction and manga you had read hadn't prepared you for this. It felt like the world was rapidly spinning around you; as if you were stuck in the eye of a hurricane.

What had happened?

Living skeletons weren't real. You'd often wished they were but you knew it was impossible since magic didn't exist and never would. So that begged the question, had you just been transported to another world?

The thought was exciting and terrifying at the same time. On one hand you were fascinated with the idea that magic could exist and that you might be able to use it. On the other though, you were alone and knew nothing about the rules of this world. For all you knew, this society was vastly different from the one you had grown up in and there was a good chance that you wouldn't understand the local language.

It didn't help that you felt so small.

At some point, the sounds of struggle ceased and suddenly there were several people crowded around you. They spoke in hushed tones and you could tell just by looking at them that something terrible had just happened.

Through context clues, you managed to piece together that "you" had been heading home from the cinema with "your mother" when the unthinkable happened. They didn't seem to know if the attack had been premeditated or completely random though.

The men in suits looked really tough and seemed to have been acting as bodyguards, which explained why they had been beating up the thug who'd presumably been the one to carry out the grisly deed. So, did this mean that you were someone really important in this world?

Thankfully, they seemed to interpret your silence and bewilderment as symptoms of shock, which wasn't entirely wrong, as this whole situation was incredibly overwhelming. You were apparently lucky to have survived at all.

The next few hours were a bit of a blur. You were whisked away to what you soon learned was a safehouse, where you were examined by a kind bunny monster who you assumed was a doctor. She was very gentle and did her best to calm your nerves.

You ended up taking a nap since you were rather worn out from the whole ordeal. Although, not even an hour later, you were woken up to the sound of muffled voices outside the dimly lit bedroom.

"S-sir! Please, I know you're worried, but-"

The speaker was cut off by a much more gruff voice. "doctor...i need to see them now."

There was a beat of silence before she answered in a much calmer tone. "Yes... Of course, forgive me for overstepping, sir..."

He hummed in a non-committal way. "don't let anyone disturb us until i return."

"Yes sir."

You sat up and brought your legs up to your ribs, so that your chin was resting on your knees. At the same time, you tugged the blanket closer, only leaving your skull exposed as you peeked out from beneath it.

The door opened and another skeleton stepped softly into the bedroom. He was actually shorter than you'd expected but he had a rather stocky build that more than made up for it. He was wearing a dark tailored pinstriped suit, an expensive looking red and blue striped tie that had been hastily knotted, a pair of high quality leather shoes, and a blue suit jacket that he'd evidently thrown over his broad shoulders.

If it wasn't for the concerned look on his face, you might have been scared of him. He had sharp teeth that reminded you of a shark and his crimson eyelights only served to highlight how dangerous he was.

Your eye sockets widened when it suddenly struck you who this mysterious skeleton was, which he unfortunately seemed to interpret as fear, and his bonebrows furrowed. He clenched his fists and for a moment, he seemed to war with himself on how to best approach you.

That mysterious Anon must've done this! You had no clue how or why though. Still, you weren't complaining since it seemed like you'd gotten your wish. You were actually going to meet Nostra!

He moved carefully to the bed and knelt down on the floor to seem more approachable. You were desperately trying to keep a straight face but inwardly, you were practically screaming that this was actually happening right now.

"how are ya feelin', buttercup?" he asked softly.

"I... I'm okay..." you stammered.

His concern seemed to melt away and he gave you a warm smile. "good, i'm glad." He gently stroked your forehead with his knuckles and while you were a bit concerned at first, the sensation was actually rather pleasant.

You didn't know what to say, so you just sat there and let him continue trying to soothe you. His movements seemed a bit stiff but also incredibly tender at the same time, almost as if he wasn't used to comforting a child. He was so careful not to hurt you with his claws that, if you didn't know better, you wouldn't think he was even capable of actually using them to hurt someone.

At some point, you became so relaxed that you let go of your knees and sat up properly. In response, he wrapped his other arm around your small frame and pulled you up against his chest. You didn't really know if you should hug him back, so you ended up just sitting there and letting him hold you.

"i'm sorry that i wasn't there when ya needed me most," he murmured. His voice sounded more husky all of the sudden, as if he was desperately trying to keep his emotions in check.

You lightly patted his arm in an attempt to comfort him. "Don't cry," you whispered. "I'm here and everything will be okay."

His hold tightened ever so slightly before he hugged you closer. He very gently nuzzled against the top of your skull but didn't say anything else.

~ - < ฅ⁠^⁠•⁠ﻌ⁠•⁠^⁠ฅ > - ~

As the days passed, you began to get used to both your new body and this new world. You tried to play the part of a grieving child and while you were pretty sure you'd been convincing, you still worried that someone would notice that something was up. You were kept inside most of the time and almost never left alone, but that didn't stop you from gathering as much info as you could.

Everything felt like you'd stepped foot into the eighties. From the decor and styles of furniture to the absence of a lot of common technology to the types of clothing people tended to wear. There was a sort of charm to it though.

The safehouse was quite a bit larger than you'd first thought and had a few dedicated staff to handle the upkeep of the place. They ignored you for the most part and other than the nice bunny doctor, who you'd since learned was named Miss Flopsy, Nostra became your primary caretaker.

While he was often busy, he regularly set aside his work to spend time with you. If you even briefly suggested wanting something, he was quick to make sure you got it, no matter what it was or how much it might cost. You were only slightly tempted to take advantage of his generosity but had managed to keep your requests pretty reasonable so far.

You could sense that Nostra was grieving, even though he was quick to put on a smile whenever you were around. He was trying to be there for you but it was pretty easy to tell that he was struggling, in more ways than one. You knew it must be rough for him to have lost his partner as well as almost losing his only child.

You really couldn't help but try to comfort him but was hard. While you knew some children could be very empathetic, it would seem strange for a child to approach the topic like an adult might. So most of the time you would resort to giving him hugs and thanking him for every nice thing he did for you.

One evening though, you snuck into his office and, unbeknownst to him, caught him in a vulnerable moment. He wasn't really crying, but his body language seemed to suggest that he had recently, and he looked like an absolute wreck.

As quietly as you could, you crept around his desk until you were standing next to his chair. His skull was buried in his hands and by the empty bottle of scotch next to him, you knew that he had likely been drinking as well.

Hesitantly, you reached up and placed your small hand on his arm. "Papa?" you asked in a whisper.

Nostra stirred with a groan and turned to look down at you. His eyelights seemed much more dull than usual and there were dark grooves underneath his eye sockets. He was too worn out to even fake a smile like he had been previously.

"You look so tired."

He sighed and ran his phalanges over your cranium. "yeah... you've always been so observant, buttercup."

"Are you done with work yet?" you asked.

" 'fraid not. there's always more paperwork to finish or people to manage."

You crossed your arms and pouted, or at least the best you could manage to without lips. Nostra made a soft tisk sound before lifting you into his lap. He nuzzled the side of your skull and traced soothing circles into your shoulder blades.

"i'm sorry but that's just how it is at times," he said in a soft voice.

"I know," you grumbled. "But even if you can't sleep, you should at least make time to relax."

His movements suddenly stilled and when you glanced up at him, he had an odd look on his skull. He didn't seem angry, just slightly confused.

You pressed your teeth together as you tried to figure out what to say next. Something you'd said must've seemed odd. Were you not supposed to know that he couldn't actually sleep thanks to his hypnosis powers?

"I don't like seeing you so stressed, Papa. It makes me sad..." You trailed off and ducked your skull against his chest, muffling a sob as you did so. Hopefully your acting would be convincing enough that he would forget about whatever weird thing just happened.

After a moment, he pulled you closer and patted your back. "i'm sorry, sweetheart. i know it's not easy right now but i'm here for ya."

You clutched at his shirt and twisted the fabric. He'd probably have to have it ironed later but that was the furthest thing from your mind right now.

"Promise you'll take breaks from your work?" you asked.

He hesitated before pressing his forehead against your skull. "alright. just for you, buttercup," he hummed.

~ - < ฅ⁠^⁠•⁠ﻌ⁠•⁠^⁠ฅ > - ~

You might have been a bit too observant for your own good.

It didn't help that you were good at sneaking around and avoiding the people who were supposed to be taking care of you. It was actually something of a game to see how long you could stay out of sight and make them panic while searching for you.

One day, you were dodging your assigned tutor and managed to slip into the basement. You knew that you were forbidden from going down here but surely there wasn't anything actually dangerous. This was a safehouse; it was literally in the name.

So, imagine your surprise when you peeked into what looked like a meeting room, only to see Nostra was inside. You were about to step out of hiding when you suddenly realized that he wasn't alone.

Sitting across from Nostra was a well dressed older gentleman. He wore a black suit with a dark green tie and his fedora has been set on the table next to him. His posture seemed a little stiff, especially since Nostra was almost lounging in the chair across from him.

They seemed to have been talking for a few minutes, although you weren't entirely sure what about, but it looked like things were going well. You noticed they both had tumblers of what looked like scotch which seemed to indicate that this was a casual encounter.

You were about to leave before someone found you down here, when you heard Nostra ask the gentleman a question.

"do ya mind if i smoke, pal?" The man barely had a chance to respond before he pulled out an expensive looking cigar and lit up. "thanks."

You grimaced as the slightly pungent smoke began to lazily drift around the room. You hated when people were inconsiderate of others and smoked inside, but at least it didn't stink as bad as cigarettes generally did.

You would've left right then and there if the colour of the smoke wasn't so mesmerizing. There were two colours actually, a bright red and a vivid blue. The smoke curled around Nostra everytime he exhaled but oddly, the colours didn't mix together like you thought they should.

The mafioso probably thought it was some sort of monster cigar, but other than his eyes widening ever so slightly, he kept a stiff poker face. You noticed that he did seem a little uncomfortable with the smoke but not to the extent that you were.

"as i was sayin', the previous arrangement still stands. if ya want to move trucks through, ya gotta pay the tax, same as everybody else." Nostra's voice was low and measured, giving the sense that he was serious about this.

"And I'm telling you that your tax is too damn high," the man growled and clenched his fists in frustration. "We'd be selling at a loss..."

Nostra leaned forward slightly and exhaled, causing the coloured smoke to practically assault the pathetic man's senses. "seems to me that there's not enough demand... maybe your boss should be more worried about losin' ground than tryin' to jip me..."

The mafioso coughed and rubbed at his eyes with his fist. "How dare...you imply that...there's no...demand...?" He was struggling to speak all of the sudden, let alone stay awake.

Nostra chuckled, "oh i wasn't implyin' anythin' of the sort." He paused for a moment and studied the man in front of him with a smirk. "tell your boss to get his act together an' if he still wants to do business, he's gotta pay up."

The man suddenly slumped forward and nearly fell out of the chair.

Nostra sighed and shook his skull. "guess i overdid it again," he muttered.

The red and blue smoke slowly dissipated although he continued smoking his cigar. After a moment, he picked up the phone on the table and dialed a number. When the other person picked up, he spoke quietly into the receiver.

"i got a job for ya, get this waste of space out of my sight... i don't care where, so long as he's able to deliver a message to the lombardi's when he wakes up."

He returned the receiver to its cradle and ran a hand over his face. With a heavy sigh, he stood up and after taking one last glance at the dozing man, turned to the door.

You gasped and dunked out of sight, but you weren't fast enough. You knew you were caught when Nostra suddenly called out after you. With a sinking feeling in your soul, you hung your skull and braced yourself for the scolding that was sure to come.

Except Nostra didn't look angry, just very concerned. If anything he seemed almost horrified that you'd likely witnessed everything that just happened.

He knelt down to be more on your level and his crimson eyelights flicked over your face for a moment. "ya aren't s'posed to be down here..." he finally said.

You fiddled with the hem of your top, finding it incredibly hard to look him in the eye right now. "I know..." you muttered.

"i know you're curious, but there's things i do that i'd rather ya not know too much about right now."

"Like what?"

He sighed and stroked your cheekbone affectionately. "business stuff. kids like you deserve to have fun an' learn things while ya can, not be burdened with adult problems."

"Your magic is really cool though," you huffed and crossed your arms. "If you want someone to do something, all you gotta do is hypnotise them and bam!"

Nostra narrowed his eye sockets and scrutinized you again. "it doesn't always work like that, buttercup. sometimes people are smart, so it's not always wise to use magic right away."

You nodded thoughtfully, "I guess that makes sense."

He hesitated for a moment and then wrapped his arms around your small frame. "there's a reason i didn't want ya to know about this. my work is dangerous and i don't want ya to ever be in danger again, okay?"

You nodded and did your best to wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. "I'm sorry, I won't come down here again," you murmured.

~ - < ฅ⁠^⁠•⁠ﻌ⁠•⁠^⁠ฅ > - ~

"you're positive that's what happened?"

"I'm certain. You can ask Joey and Marco but I swear they were dusting. I remember there was a flash of light and the next thing I know, they were fine."

(...)

You were happily sketching away in your room. There was just so many interesting things in this world and as of late, your creative juices had been flowing freely. Although, you were very careful not to leave your drawings out for just anyone to see. It would probably be pretty suspicious for a child to have the skill level that you did when it came to art.

There was a gentle knock on the door that had you scrambling to hide your sketchbook under your sheets. You grabbed a random book from the bedside table and plopped yourself on top of the concealed drawings.

"hey, can i come in, sweetheart?" Nostra called through the door.

"Yep!"

You smiled brightly when he entered your room, but his expression remained serious, which was concerning. You waited until he had crossed the floor and sat down next to you on the bed before trying to figure out what was bothering him.

"Did something happen, Papa?" you asked carefully.

He frowned at that and you noticed his hands clench slightly before he took a steadying breath to try to calm down.

"no, but i was wonderin' about somethin', so i need ya to be honest with me, okay?" he asked in a quiet tone.

You pressed your teeth together as you set the book aside. You hadn't seen him act this seriously towards you before and it was frankly a little terrifying. Had you done something wrong? Could this be related to the attack that had happened before you appeared in this world? Had you slipped up somewhere?

Turning back to Nostra, you nodded. "Okay..."

"do ya remember what ya used to call your uncle?"

Your proverbial heart sunk. This was really bad! You hadn't even considered that his brother was even in this world and you sure as hell hadn't met him. Actually, you hadn't even met any of your mother's family now that you were thinking about it.

When you couldn't answer, Nostra's bonebrows pinched together with concern. "what about your birthday last year? do ya remember what flavour of ice scream ya had?"

"Chocolate?" you tried.

His face remained passive, giving no indication if that was even the right answer or not. "what about what your mother's favourite animal was?"

Again, you had no idea how to answer. Your mind was scrambling for any excuse to get out of this situation. Would it be too much of a stretch to claim that the attack had given you amnesia?

You jumped when Nostra put his hand on your back. He waited until you glanced up at him again before speaking.

"is there somethin' that ya need to tell me?"

The jig was officially up. You could hear your bones rattling from how badly you'd started shaking, but he was remaining firm, waiting for an answer.

"I... I'm not..." You were struggling to even speak at this point and your eye sockets were starting to sting, unshed tears threatening to burst through the dam and spill down your cheekbones.

"I'm not your child," you finally said.

Nostra's eye sockets widened a fraction and you felt the hand on your back twitch slightly, but he otherwise remained calm. "what do you mean?"

"I don't know how to explain it..." You stared at your hands for a moment as you wracked your non-existent brain for the words. "I look like them...but I have memories of being someone else. I'm...not even from this time period..."

He let go of you and ran his hand down his face with a heavy sigh. It was so quiet, you could hear a pin drop if you weren't already nearly going deaf from all the rattling.

"Nostra, please...!" You started to reach for him but stopped yourself. Maybe it wouldn't be a good idea to potentially risk setting him off.

"I never wanted to hurt you..." you whispered, although your soul ached at the realization that by pretending to be his child, you had deceived him.

"where are ya from?" he asked.

You paused for a moment as you tried to figure out the best way to explain it. "I'm from another world... It's kind of like this one but without magic and monsters. You were...a character that someone created for fun..."

You could feel the way he was staring at you all of the sudden. You didn't blame him for being confused or even a little freaked out. You would be too if someone just randomly told you the things that had been coming out of your mouth.

"so, that's how ya knew i'm an insomniac..."

You nodded solemnly. "And how I know about how your hypnotism magic works."

"i...don't know what i was expectin' earlier... it wasn't anythin' like this though," Nostra muttered. "i thought maybe ya had memory loss or ya somehow absorbed someone else's soul... not somethin' this...complicated."

"I'm sorry."

He sighed and rubbed at the space between his eye sockets. "i should've done more. maybe i would've noticed sooner if i wasn't always so damn busy all the time..."

You remained silent.

"was it an accident?"

He was looking at you again and by the look in his crimson eyelights, you knew everything rested on the answer to his question. He didn't look angry, yet, but the way his pinpricks were flickering and how tightly he was gritting his teeth, you could see that he was barely containing his emotions.

"Yes. I was sent here without warning and I don't know if it's even possible to go back."

He held eye contact for several long seconds and you struggled not to look away for fear that he might think you were lying.

"i see."

"I understand if you're mad. I knew I shouldn't have tried to deceive you in the first place and there's really no excuse for my behavior."

"i'm not mad, not really... this is just a lot to process."

You reached over and placed your hand on his arm. "Again, I'm so sorry. If you want me to leave...?"

"no!"

You gasped at his sudden outburst but he quickly gave you an apologetic look.

"i'm sorry. just, don't leave..." He started to reach for you but hesitated, letting his hand hover near your face. "i know you're not them...but i can't handle losin' you too..."

You swallowed and blinked rapidly to keep the tears from breaking free. "If it makes you uncomfortable, I won't keep pretending to be them anymore."

Nostra nodded, "i need to think this over, but for now, i think that would be best." He cupped the back of your skull and when you gave him a slight nod, he pulled you into a careful hug.

You hugged him back as tightly as you could. While you weren't sure how your relationship would progress from here, you had hope that you could at least remain friends with him. Although you would need to work hard to establish something genuine.

Pretending to be his own kid was kinda weird anyways.

[itstheghostofmypast]

Mini Series Ateez x (F)Reader

Summary: A mini series of each member of ATZ Mafia. Each member fic will have two parts, a Prequel and a Sequel.

Genre: Hurt+Comfort+Angst

Rating: PG-17

Word Count: Will depend on chapter

Est. Read Time: Will depend on chapter

Warnings: Blood, kidnapping, gore, language, guns, murder, gothic anxiety, phantasmagoric reality (if that makes you uncomfortable), human trafficking, domestic violence.

Networks: @cromernet @k-labels @illusionnet

☆Kim Hongjoong- Cosa Nostra☆

Prequel / Sequel

☆Park Seonghwa- Jaded Love☆

Prequel / Sequel

☆Jeong Yunho- Fragility of Morality☆

Prequel / Sequel

☆Kang Yeosang- Mia Cara☆

Prequel / Sequeal

☆Choi San- A Goodfella's Moondance☆

Prequel / Sequel

☆Song Mingi- Selfish Waltz☆

Prequel / Sequel

☆Jung Wooyoung- Bell'uccellino☆

Prequel / Sequel

☆Choi Jongho- Dolce Melodia☆

Prequel / Sequel

[child-of-hurin]

my love @kareenvorbarra tagged me to share 5 books read since September that I have loved.

Clarimonde (La Morte Amoureuse), Téophile Gautier -- I don't have a single criticism to make about this book :) A wonderful read, I especially loved the execution of the part where the protagonist doesn't know which life is real and which is a dream. I listened to the old Brazilian Portuguese translation available on the Conto um Conto podcast feed and thought it was excellent, e uma amiga leu a belíssima edição da editora Wish e também elogiou bastante -- fica a dica pros lusófonos daqui :)

Le Cycle de la Belle Dame sans Mercy, David Hult & Joan McRae -- It's an anthology of poems and/or contemporary literary endeavors related to La Belle Dame sans Mercy (Alain Chartier), and it's very interesting, and a lot of fun to read, even if sometimes one can't help the exasperation at how much our titular character has to go through for the crime of... being the object of an extremely insistent suitor's obsession :P It's really interesting to see the ways in which many different readers reacted to it though, and a nice contrast to the Roman de la rose that I had just finished. And the poetry itself is lovely -- I wish there was audio or video available of someone reading it out loud, but if there is, I can't seem to find it :'(

Antes do Baile Verde, Lygia Fagundes Telles -- A collection of short stories, I think most of them are available individually in English but the collection itself doesn't seem to have ever been translated into this language. I recently got obsessed with The Hunt (one of the stories), and after listening to every single recording of it I could find, I decided to read it for myself, and ended up reading the whole book, and it's really excellent, I love the way she builds and holds (and almost never resolves) the tension... One of my favorite short story writers ^^

Vita Nostra, Marina and Sergey Dyachenko -- I LOOOOOVED this book, so much that I do not know how to talk about it. I loved it and I haven't stopped thinking about it since I finished reading it. I am on the verge of rereading it though I know I should wait longer... Anyway if anyone has read insightful conversation/reviews of this book that go beyond praising it, please let me know, I'm very interested!

The Obelisk Gate, N.K. Jemisin -- It's such a wonderful experience to read an author who has both a vision and the technical skill to pull it off! My favorite thing about this specific volume were the visuals, I really think they were incredible. I have already forgotten parts of the plot, but I think I remember vividly every single scene with a stone-eater. I'm also sooo pleased by the way she looks at greater social power structures! Been A WHILE since I read original setting fantasy with an actual spine. TBH I was 100% burned out on that specific genre for a while and The Fifth Season is what brought me back. On the side of things I didn't like, there are a couple (that "magic" vocabulary scene was genuinely cringe imo...), but mostly I wish there was more commonplace tenderness, both in-narrative and on a meta level. If it wasn't for Hoa as a narrative element, this book would be unreadable (to me ofc).

Tag uuuh @ourlightsinvain @imindhowwelayinjune @thelioninmybed @bamboocounting @vardasvapors @anghraine @yavieriel @medievalcat @seagodofmagic @hadrianspaywall @nelyafinwe (are you in the room with us giulia...) @hoeratius & anyone else who feels like doing it :)

[napuleh]

Se interrogate uno storico, o buoni ed amabili lettori, vi risponderà che la tomba della bella Parthenope è sull’altura di San Giovanni Maggiore, dove allora il mare lambiva il piede della montagnola. Un altro vi dirà che la tomba di Parthenope è sull’altura di Sant’Aniello, verso la campagna, sotto Capodimonte. Ebbene, io vi dico che non è vero. Parthenope non ha tomba, Parthenope non è morta. Ella vive, splendida, giovane e bella, da cinquemila anni. Ella corre ancora sui poggi, ella erra sulla spiaggia, ella si affaccia al vulcano, ella si smarrisce nelle vallate. È lei che rende la nostra città ebbra di luce e folle di colori: è lei che fa brillare le stelle nelle notti serene; è lei che rende irresistibile il profumo dell’arancio; è lei che fa fosforeggiare il mare.

"If you ask a historian, or good and amiable readers, he will answer that the tomb of the beautiful Parthenope is on the hill of San Giovanni Maggiore, where at that time the sea lapped the foot of the mountain. Another will tell you that Parthenope's tomb is on the hill of Sant'Aniello, towards the countryside, below Capodimonte.

Well, I tell you that is not true. Parthenope has no grave, Parthenope is not dead. She has lived, splendid, young and beautiful, for five thousand years. She still runs on the hillocks, she wanders on the beach, she looks out over the volcano, she gets lost in the valleys. It is she who makes our city intoxicated with light and mad with colors: it is she who makes the stars shine on clear nights; it is she who makes the scent of orange irresistible; it is she who makes the sea phosphorize."

[attaccapannipress]

Buon San Valentino sotto il segno dell'appendino! Cari lettori, non facciamo questo post per la festa degli innamorati solo perché Laura Guglielmo abbia una scusa per disegnare degli adorabili uccellini - anche se sarebbe un'ottima ragione.

Bensì anche per dirvi che Attaccapanni Press VI AMA! Vi ama così tanto che ha preparato per voi una 🧡sorpresa🧡 con cui festeggerà l'anniversario dalla fondazione dell'Associazione, tra due giorni. Insomma: questo sabato aspettatevi la nostra prova d'amore. Intanto, buona festa degli innamorati! //

Happy St. Valentine’s day under the coat hanger!

Dear readers, we’re not posting today just to give @lauraguglielmo an excuse to draw lovely birds - though we feel that’d be a great reason.

We’re posting to say that Attaccapanni Press LOVES YOU! We love you so much we have a 🧡surprise🧡  for you to celebrate the aniversary of the Association’s founding, in two days.

So: expect our proof of love this Saturday. In the meantime, happy lovers’ day! 

[clausvonbohlen]

Where I am; a manifesto, memoir, and auto-analysis.

I haven’t posted on here for a long time. This was intended to be a brief update, but has turned into something much longer, a sort of summary of the last 10 years. Perhaps that’s fitting, given that I turned 40 a few months ago. It will, however, require more commitment from you, my cherished reader.

 But first, a disclaimer of sorts. This is about the ups, but also – and perhaps primarily – about the downs. And yet I know I am lucky. Indeed, I won a sort of birth lottery: I am white, male, educated, and have never suffered from lack of anything. If you don’t think that I should have downs, or if you think that if I have them I should not write about them, then you should stop reading here. This has been my experience, I promise to relate it to you with as much honesty as I am capable of. If that is not enough for you, then we cannot be friends.

 This is also, in a sense, the story of my continuing search for happiness. When I say ‘happiness’, I mean it in the deepest sense – a life that is fulfilling, and meaningful, and conducive to continued growth and flourishing. There is nothing unique about that; it’s a journey we are all on, in one way or another. And I also feel a certain duty; if I, with all my advantages, can’t be happy in that deep sense, then what hope is there for those less fortunate? And if no one can be happy, then what, really, is the point of human existence on earth? Is that too grandiose an extrapolation? I don’t think so.

  In fact, I do now feel that I am on the right path, but I lost it for a while, and I could lose it again. That’s what I now intend to write about.

  I am not the first to have been at a loss, and particularly not at this stage. Seven centuries ago, Dante Alighieri wrote:

‘Nell’ mezzo del camin di nostra vita

mi ritrovai per una selva oscura

ché la diritta via era smarrita.’

  When I had journeyed half of our life's way, I found myself within a shadowed forest, for I had lost the path that does not stray.

  In my case, I began to find the path harder to follow about ten years ago. At that time I was living in London, writing, going out, occasionally hooking up with girls, going to rugby training during the week and playing matches on weekends. For years, rugby had been a big part of my life. I was only ever competent, but since my work life was solitary, I loved the team side of it, and the physicality too. But then, to my surprise, I found myself enjoying it less and less. The training was predictable, the games often disappointing; only the friendships kept me going.

 My life in London also felt predictable and uninspiring. I had finished one novel and had not yet started on a second. I was serving part time as a Special Constable – a volunteer Police Officer- in the borough of Wandsworth. It was generally dull work, though I had signed up for it in the hope of excitement, and to get me out of my apartment, which was also my place of work. Then the opportunity arose for me to change tack and work for a German film director in Los Angeles, as his assistant. I took it. From one week to the next, I handed in my police badge, hung up my rugby boots, and moved to America.

  I have recently been listening to some podcasts by the psychologist Richard Alpert, later known as Ram Dass. My experience of ceasing to enjoy playing rugby – a very small thing, in itself – gave me my first inkling of the much deeper changes that he describes more dramatically as ‘the dark night of the soul’. This is  from a talk he gave:

‘And you will go through a period, some of you have already done it, where you are horrified by your dying, the dying of rushes you were previously getting from life, that you tried to hold on to something that was giving you a rush before, because you couldn’t ever conceive that it wouldn’t always give you a rush, but it doesn’t, and the lag between when you stopped having the rush and when you are willing to cop to it, see, that’s how bad you want to get done. A lot of us are clinging to rushes we are already done having, partly because we don’t know what to do next, or partly because we are afraid of what happens next, because “lest ye die ye cannot be born again”… and that is the “dark night of the soul” in St. John of the Cross, where you have lost the fun of the world and you haven’t fully tasted the divinity.’

  There is a lot more in that talk, much of it still mysterious to me. But I would have to say, other ‘rushes’ then started to fall away too. Drinking. The Cresta Run. One night stands. Not to say that they couldn’t be enjoyable on occasion, but there was certainly no reliability in it. Not as there once had been, and not as other people seemed to experience.

  Recently I had a very clear perception of the diminishing returns from ‘rushes’. I was walking home here in Athens, having smoked a joint. The whole way, I was focussed on the next sensory pleasure that I could give myself. I got home and drank a glass of wine. Then I ate some chocolate. Then I surfed the web. The dissatisfactory quality of each gratification was almost immediately evident; the pleasure lasted just moments, and as soon as it was over, I was casting around for the next one. The balance between enjoyment and dissatisfaction has shifted over the years, or maybe I now see it with greater clarity. In any case, I couldn’t help wondering, how long will I continue with this pattern? How long until the dissatisfaction outweighs the enjoyment? And what then?

  A Western psychologist reading this might think, aha, sounds like you were/ are depressed. But I don’t think Richard Alpert would have said that. Or, if he had, he would have attributed very little significance to the term. It might be an accurate description – in terms of box-checking - of a certain pattern of feeling and behaving, but it says very little about the meaning and deeper purpose of that pattern. And I am sure that there is both meaning and purpose.

  But to resume the narrative – the narrative of my life! – I moved to Los Angeles and very quickly realised that I was completely disenchanted with both the industry I was working in, and the city I had moved to. I met many talented, attractive, successful people, but they all seemed so unhappy, so anxious, so neurotic. In fact, the film industry and the city – hard for me to differentiate the two – seemed to suffer from a collective neurosis. I wanted to understand it.

  At the same time, I had started to realise that the traditional goals were not going to provide me with the ‘rushes’ I had lost. I came across a quote by Helen Keller that resonated with me:

  ‘True happiness is not attained through self-gratification but through fidelity to a worthy purpose.’

And with that in mind, I decided to become a psychotherapist. I applied to graduate school in San Francisco, quit my job in Los Angeles, and embarked on a doctoral degree in Clinical Psychology six months later.

  At first, it was exciting to embark upon a new field of study, in a new city, with a sense of purpose. However, little by little, the disenchantment set in. Not so much with the absence of rushes, but rather with a sense that the material I was being taught, and the perspective I was being taught it from, were misguided. The information was accurate as far as it went, but it was based on a contracted view of what human life could be. I have written about this disenchantment in other places  (e.g. my blog at that time, www.icanseealcatraz.blogspot.com). Eventually I found a happier home at Saybrook University, formerly the Humanistic Psychology Institute of California State University. Here I was able to take courses in the Psychology of Shamanism, Eastern Psychology and Existential Psychology, amongst others. I was encouraged to look at human life from a broader perspective.

  I graduated with an MA in Existential, Humanistic and Transpersonal Psychology, then I went to work for the Gaza Community Mental Health Programme, a Palestinian NGO in the Gaza Strip. But with only rudimentary Arabic, I soon reached the limit of my usefulness. Following the kidnapping and murder of one of the very few other non-UN foreigners there, I moved to Beirut, to study Arabic.

  My short time in Gaza made a big impression on me. Despite the poverty, the nightly sound of drones overhead, the sonic booms of Israeli fighter jets on daytime fly-bys, and the fact that ordinary Gazans cannot leave their tiny strip of land (no airport or port, closed borders), the people struck me as happier, on the whole, than the average American (yes, yes) in San Francisco. That impression deserves an essay in itself, and it is something I rarely talk about, since it is easily misinterpreted. It also has to do with the bonding effect of shared suffering and a common enemy (similar to the Blitz in that respect), as well as more tightly knit families, and minimal materialism. But in short, and as idealistic as this may sound, it made me realise that human relationships make people happier than constant material consumption ever can.

  When I first arrived in Beirut, I taught English to Palestinian students from camps in Lebanon, through an NGO called Unite Lebanon Youth Project (ULYP). Then I heard about a vacancy for a full time teacher of English Literature, and also Philosophy, at Brummana High School, in the mountains above Beirut. I applied, went for an interview, and was offered the job.

  I worked at Brummana for two years. Some of those experiences are detailed elsewhere in this blog. But in short, I was teaching subjects that I found interesting, to students that I liked. I had a lot of freedom and was even allowed to design and teach a Creative Writing elective that turned out to be more like group therapy, with some poems and short stories on the side. I was living in a beautiful place, with sweeping views over Beirut and the Mediterranean. I was doing the kind of work that is generally thought to be worthwhile, to accord with Keller’s ‘worthy purpose’, and to be fulfilling. And yet, having settled into the daily and weekly routine, it was not long before I once again started to feel restless.

  I left Brummana, and Lebanon at the same time. I was not sure what I wanted to do next, but I thought that a cure for my perpetual restlessness might be a long walk, so I walked with Finny – my Lebanese foundling dog – from Salzburg to Santiago de Compostela, along the old medieval pilgrims’ route. The walk took us six months, and I wrote about it here – www.onehundredwordsaweek.blogspot.com

  The walk gave me plenty of time to think. I limited my access to email and internet to once a week. One email I received along the way was from an old school friend, organizing a dinner for a group of us who had left school exactly twenty years before. It made me think back to that period of my life, and these lines from the Frank O’Hara’s poem ‘Animals’ came to mind:

  Have you forgotten what we were like then

when we were still first rate,

and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth?

 I was reminded of certain mornings as a teenager, perhaps during the summer holidays, when my body hummed with energy, and when the future filled me with a sense of tremendous excitement.

  And I thought of Housman’s lines from section XV of ‘A Shropshire Lad’, lines that more accurately reflected my own experience of recent years:

  Into my heart an air that kills

From yon far country blows;

What are those blue remembered hills,

What spires, what farms are those?

  That is the land of lost content,

I see it shining plain,

The happy highways where I went,

And cannot come again.

  I had hoped that the pilgrimage would allow me to work out what I wanted to do with my life. It didn’t. Or at least, not in any long-term way. However, it did make me think that after almost a decade away from the UK, I should return there to spend some time with my parents, and also to put some energy into maintaining and renovating parts of our family home in Sussex. It is an old house with a lovely garden and I have memories of a very happy childhood there. But it had started to look a little neglected, perhaps more obvious to me since I would just see it once or twice a year. The place has given me a lot, and I felt a responsibility to it.

  So I found myself back in a place that I loved, channeling my energy into a project that felt worthwhile, and spending some time with parents who will not be around for ever. Ideas of nostalgia were still in my head, but not in the way they had been during the walk. Now I became aware of the second meaning of the term – not homesickness so much as a more literal ‘nostos’ and ‘algos’, the pain of returning home (an insight that I owe to Rory Dunlop and his very enjoyable novel ‘What We Didn’t Say’). Because I did now feel pain; home was not the same, my parents were not the same, and nor was I.

  At first I minimized all this. People close to me endorsed my renovation project, and my decision to spend time with my parents. I knew I was lucky to have grown up in such a beautiful place. But the problem was that I was struggling to see the beauty, or feel the luck. Wherever I looked I just saw problems, endless menial maintenance tasks with no end in sight, like one of those bridges – The Golden Gate, the Severn - where as soon as the painters finish painting one end they need to start at the beginning again.

  What’s more, I was drinking a couple of cocktails every evening, then passing out as soon as I lay down. But I would wake up feeling exhausted and achy, and my tiredness would only increase throughout the day. I also felt a tightness in my throat, and a general lack of enthusiasm. I thought I might have contracted a virus, so I went to see my GP. He did some blood tests but couldn’t find anything wrong.

  Throughout my life, books and literature have always provided a refuge. But no longer: I was struggling to concentrate, and I wasn’t enjoying any of the books that I picked up, despite the fact that they often came highly recommended.

  In a last ditch attempt to lift myself out of this slough of literary despond, I made a larger order of carefully chosen titles, from Amazon. The first book to arrive, clearly addressed to me, was ‘What Matters Most’, by Dr. James Hollis. Bizarrely, I had never heard of it. There was no receipt, and when I viewed my account online, I found no record of having ordered it.

  That night, most unusually, I woke up at 2am and couldn’t get back to sleep. I picked up the book and started reading. I read for 3 hours straight; it felt as if the book had been written specifically for me. Dr. Hollis’ thesis, based on his Jungian training, is that there is something beyond the Freudian id-ego-superego structure, and that is the soul. The soul needs to grow, needs to feel that it is expanding and developing, and if that does not happen, then sooner or later we will experience symptoms – lack of energy, frustration, anxiety, indecision, and physical ailments too.

  Despite the somewhat pop-y title, Hollis is a serious Jungian analyst. From his perspective, the book’s mysterious arrival would not be an accident, but an instance of synchronicity. The following morning, when I woke, I saw a whatsapp message on my phone from an old friend with whom I communicate about once a month. He told me he had just woken from a dream in which I had recommended a book to him. I told him of my experience of the night, and recommended Hollis’ book to him.

  ‘What Matters Most’ made me realise that my malaise had a meaning, that my body was the means through which the soul and the unconscious were trying to communicate with me, and that those deepest parts of me were frustrated because they did not feel they were growing. Most people my age are married and have families; many have their own businesses. These are all creative acts. I, on the other hand, was trying to patch up my childhood, to preserve my parents’ vision, and – essentially - to hold onto the past. The book also drew my attention to the way that it can often be fear – fear of change, fear of failure, fear of what other people will think – that holds us back from being all that we can be.

  In the summer, I attended an Ayahuasca retreat in Scotland, something I was quite apprehensive about, since I have long questioned the value of de-contextualised shamanism. But the retreat was guided by an inspiring individual who was himself deeply rooted in a specific tradition, and it rekindled my own interest in plant medicine and Amazonian shamanism. I felt that the time had come to delve deeper into that world, so I interviewed the shaman about where it might still be possible to find uncontaminated shamanic practices in the Amazon (without risking one’s life), and based on his information, I planned a trip for the end of the year.

  I went to Peru with my mind open; I wanted to see whether it would be possible for me to communicate with the plants in the way that curanderos and vegetalistas describe. I took Ayahuasca twice a week over a period of two months, as described in previous posts on this blog, but the plants did not communicate with me. Or, at least, that is what I thought at the time. They certainly did not teach me their healing and medicinal purposes, nor the songs through which this information is said to be relayed. But, in restrospect, I think they may have had a message for me, namely that it was not the right time for me to explore that world. I needed to ground myself in this world more firmly first, to feel that I had a home of my own, an Archimedean point.

  My Ayahuasca trips are rarely very visual, but one mental image that kept coming back to me was of an empty white room, with a view of the blue sky and the blue sea. At the time, I thought this was probably a reaction to my life in Sussex where, in addition to feeling lethargic and unwell, I had felt oppressed by ‘stuff’ – the accumulated clutter of my lifetime, and my parents’ lifetime, and the clutter of previous generations. So many things, and they weighed on me, as a sense of family history also weighed on me. The empty white room was the opposite of that: a space in which to let go, to de-clutter, and to create.

  I was able to experience a pared down, de-cluttered life in a Zen monastery in Japan some months later, and I found it very rewarding. But it was brutal too – the monastery was freezing, I was not allowed to wear socks or a hat, and the obligatory 4.30am morning meditation was followed by hours of floor cleaning, with a cold wet rag. But I soon felt calmer than I had done for years, though I also realised that I was not ready to make a longterm commitment to that kind of a life, though at some future point, who knows.

  Back in Europe some months later, I joined a few friends on a short hiking holiday in Crete, inspired by the Patrick Leigh-Fermor and Stanley Moss’ kidnapping of the German General Kreipe in 1942, and their subsequent march across the mountainous centre of the island. General Kreipe had been dragging his feet,  expecting to be rescued at any moment. On the first morning of his abduction he observed the sunrise on Mt. Ida and quoted the first verse of Horace’s ‘Ode to Thaliarcus’, describing a similar sunrise on Mt. Soractus in the Apennines. When he had finished, Patrick Leigh-Fermor – a classicist blessed with an excellent memory - quoted the remaining verses. The General was impressed and stopped dragging his feet from that point on. In his memoir, Patrick Leigh Fermor wrote, “…for a long moment, the war had ceased to exist. We had both drunk at the same fountains long before.”

  I was blown away by the area of Crete that we were hiking through. The walk across Europe had re-sensitized me to the beauty of landscape, but these Cretan mountains were, I felt, the landscapes that I wished to get to know deeply, and one day to paint.

  I won’t pretend that I found the actual empty white room of my Ayahuasca visions, but this place definitely had the right feel. It was here that I could imagine building that white room for myself, with its view of the sea and the sky.

  I returned to the UK with a sense of excitement about the future that I had not felt for some time. I was finally finding some direction, even a sense of purpose.

  Some readers may be thinking, fine, but what about teaching? What about psychotherapy? What about helping people? Maybe you should be less selfish, maybe if you had committed to those things, you would have found that sense of purpose?

  I hear you, friend reader! But I felt I did commit, to the extent that I was capable at those times, and yet I was restless. Not despairing, but not exactly happy either. Does that matter? Should it not be enough just to feel that you are doing something worthwhile? I think it does matter. Happiness creates ripples, and if you are happy in yourself, then that will have a positive effect on all the interactions you have, and on all the people you meet. The uplifting interaction with a stranger in a supermarket may have more impact than the worthiest acts that are performed by someone who is profoundly miserable. We are not the originators of love or positivity; rather, we are conduits for those qualities, and we channel them most effectively when we are happy in ourselves.

  Happiness, in this deep sense, is not a purely selfish thing. It benefits others too, and in some mysterious way it may even shape the world we live in. So do what makes you happy, but make sure you understand the distinction between sensory gratification and real happiness.

  But isn’t the pursuit of happiness always self-defeating? We are happy until we ask ourselves whether we are happy, and then we realise we could be happier, and that makes us unhappy… Happiness is, in the words of Oliver Burkeman, a ‘delicate two-step’: aim at it too directly, and you will lose it.

  There is truth in that. But at the same time, I think that there are certain constituents of happiness that will never let us down. Two of the most important, as Freud stated, are work and love. Work, at its best, should provide a sense of purpose, and also allow us to experience a state of flow, that sense of being fully absorbed in a task. Seen in this light, work can be very similar to concentration meditation; it allows the restless mind to settle.

  To be in that state of flow and get paid for it is perhaps the holy grail. But even if we don’t get paid for it, we still need it. We might then describe it as a ‘hobby’, or perhaps it is simply unpaid work (like my mother ‘working’ in the garden), but the important thing is that we are having that experience.

  We also need to feel love, or else we become brittle and emotionally atrophied. But that need not necessarily be romantic love. We can love our friends, or music, or a pet, or nature, or God; the important thing is to remove the blockages from that channel.

  To return to my own story, I have known for some time that I need to rediscover the state of flow. My walk across Europe had reminded me of the power of landscape to move me. Crete’s rugged beauty impressed me deeply. When I was younger, I used to paint a lot. But in my 20s and early 30s, I did not find it dynamic enough. Now I think differently; the calming, meditative quality holds an appeal for me that I was not conscious of before. I made up my mind to return to Crete and devote myself to painting landscapes. And the more I thought about it, the more it seemed the right thing to do.

  I remembered a piece of advice from a letter that Hunter S. Thompson wrote to  his friend Hume Logan. Logan requests career advice, to which Thompson replies: ‘…beware of looking for goals: look for a way of life. Decide how you want to live and then see what you can do to make a living WITHIN that way of life.’

                  When I imagine my future, I do not aspire to being surrounded by flapping assistants, chauffeured from meeting to meeting, plied with rich food and drink, signing cheques for the maintenance of houses and expensive toys. And estranged wives. No, I would much rather spend time in the landscapes that I love, building a relationship with them through meticulous observation, and recording that relationship through the act of painting. A direct relationship, not mediated through a digital screen, and – crucially – free from distractions. Hemingway said: ‘The man who has begun to live more seriously within begins to live more simply without.’ I want to live seriously within.

  I have also been inspired by the film Jiro Dreams of Sushi, about an elderly Japanese sushi chef called Jiro. In my own life, I have not observed many people ageing well, by which I mean being happy and at peace with themselves and the world as they grow old. Jiro, though rather a tyrant in his restaurant, seems to me to be that rare bird: a happy old man. He still works every day, as he has done since his earliest youth, and he is driven by the same goal: to make the perfect mouthful of sushi, just a tiny fraction of a degree more delicious than anything he has ever made before. He has no interest in retirement, or even in holidays; what can they offer a man with so clear a sense of purpose?

  Jiro is an artist. Perhaps he is lucky to have been born with a fine palate, and with so clear a sense of purpose. But perhaps we can decide on our purpose, and thereby make our own luck.

  *

  In the Amazon, the plants had not spoken to me, at least not through the medium of song. And yet, more and more, I feel that they are alive, and maybe that they do have spirits. Indeed, that all of nature is animate in that way. Painting is a way to concentrate on the natural world, and to explore these intuitions more deeply.

  I know that landscape painting is not really part of the dialogue of contemporary art, but that doesn’t bother me. In fact, I think I prefer it that way. If you have got this far, you will have realised that I prefer the monologue anyway. In addition, landscape painting could have a moral dimension, since the more we  appreciate the beauty and harmony of nature, the less likely we are to destroy it. Painting has the capacity not only to open the eyes of the artist, but of the viewer too. That is a worthy goal; to communicate something of the vision and the sensitivity.

  Finally, perhaps I am starting to see painting as a secular form of worship; through it, I can express my gratitude for creation, and for the fact that I am here to appreciate it. And maybe that is our collective human purpose: we are nature becoming conscious of itself.

  *

  Back in London, I started taking Greek lessons at the Hellenic Centre. Then I bought a second-hand motorbike, tidied my affairs, and set off by motorbike for Crete. I took the ferry to Santander, arriving by night in the middle of a rainstorm, then crossed the north of Spain to Barcelona. I stayed with my old friend F, whom I had got to  know 20 years before, when we both played for a rugby team in Barcelona. On the last night of my visit, his wife gave birth, two weeks early. He just managed to get her to the hospital in time, and I said goodbye to him and his wife, and their newborn baby, in the maternity ward the following morning.

  I spent a week with other friends in France, then continued into Italy in the crucible of a heat-wave. Biking long distances is tiring at the best of times, but exhausting in 42 degrees, when the heat radiates off the motorway and you are clad in black leather. I had planned to bike through the Balkans, but there were wildfires in Albania, and I was finding it increasingly tough going. I crossed the north of Italy and then decided to take the ferry from Ancona to Greece. While biking the final leg from Patras to Athens, I felt euphoric; I had a strange sense of having finally come home. I thought of Cavafy’s poem ‘Ithaka’:

  Keep Ithaka always in your mind. Arriving there is what you are destined for. But do not hurry the journey at all. Better if it lasts for years, so you are old by the time you reach the island, wealthy with all you have gained on the way, not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

  Greece is not my native soil, but I am beginning to feel that my journey has been a long one. Perhaps that is enough; anywhere can be home if we choose to make it so.

  *

  Except for the touristy areas, Athens in August is something of a ghost town. I only stayed a couple of days before continuing to Crete. I was afraid that it would not live up to my idealised recollections, but I need not have worried. I returned to the area I had visited in the spring, and it was as wild and beautiful as I remembered. I hiked, swam in the sea, painted watercolours, and observed the old men in the taverna at night. But despite the inspiring landscape, I soon realised that, at this point in my life, I would find life in this remote area of Crete too lonely. In addition, I am still a very long way from possessing the technical skill to paint the kind of pictures that I have in my head.

  In September I returned to Athens. I started a course of intensive Greek lessons, and I spent my days crisscrossing the city on foot, getting to know different areas and looking for an apartment to rent, as well as a space to use as a painting studio. It was still very hot, and at times the language barrier could make life difficult. But things seemed to fall into place: I met good people and found spaces that far exceeded my hopes, both in terms of charm and affordability. I felt that I was experiencing first-hand my theory about positive energy: when you are happy and open to the universe and to others, then good things often fall into your lap. It seems more than just coincidence.

  There are many things I love about Athens. Above all, I feel that people are less neurotic than in any other place I have ever lived. There is not the same restless quality. At times this can be challenging too; it often makes me realise how impatient I am, but that is a valuable lesson. At least once a day I have to say to myself, ‘You can’t hurry the Greeks.’

  I love the absence of billboards and advertising in the city generally, and particularly on the underground. My mental space is more protected here, my consciousness not constantly invaded by disingenuous images telling me what products I need to buy in order to be happy, or what I should look like, or the kind of life that I should aspire towards. It’s very pleasant, but most Greeks are unaware of their good fortune in this respect, because it is all they know. I am tempted to draw a parallel with colour perception in the ancient world. There is no word for blue in ancient Greek, perhaps because, with all that immensity of sea and sky, the colour was so ubiquitous that the ancient eye was not trained to pick it out.

  I love the fact that the bars and cafés are crowded with cheerful, attractive Athenians who will sip from one or two glasses of iced espresso all night. Their pleasure comes from conversation, from each other, and not from getting wasted.

  I love the fact that this is not a nanny state. Occasionally you will see someone riding a motorbike, no helmet, cigarette between his lips, holding a phone to his ear, and with a dog perched on the fuel tank. Dangerous, yes, but free too.

  There are many beautiful Greek girls. In some ways they are similar to Lebanese girls, but they are more natural looking. I love the sound of the language as they speak it. It has a delicate, tinkling quality, like a clear mountain stream.

  I love the exaggerated respect that you are shown when you have to enter a PIN number anywhere. As soon as a shopkeeper or waiter has given you the portable terminal, he will retreat into a corner, closing his eyes and turning his back, as if you were handling a vial of anthrax rather than a credit card.

  I love the fact that in a spinning class I went to, the strapping instructor came round before and after  the class offering everyone chocolate truffles; during the class, he projected a sequence of Victoria’s Secret videos, which was an excellent distraction for me, and which the rest of the class – all girls - appeared to not to mind.

  As a single person, I love the fact that in Greek the same word (‘ελευθερος’) means both ‘single’ and ‘free’.

  I love the fact that internet dating has not caught on in Athens. Greeks prefer to speak to each other in person, and will still start conversations with strangers in a queue, rather than focus all their attention on their telephones. They think that there is something a little bit sad about conducting the affairs of the heart through an app, even when real world interactions mean running the risk of rejection. And, because they are less neurotic, the belief that the perfect partner is just one more swipe away has less traction.

  *

  Of course there have been challenging days too, particularly while I was struggling to find a place to live, owing to the boom in Airbnbs, and consequent dearth of furnished apartments on the domestic market. But often things felt not quite real. On one occasion, when I was frustrated after yet another rejection from a prospective landlord, I looked up to see a clown on an oversize unicycle cycling down hectic Piraeus street; as if the universe were telling me to take a deep breath and lighten up.

  That is a just a very small moment, but it does tap into a much bigger question about the reality of the external world. For some time now I have wondered about the extent to which we are involved in the co-creation of what we perceive to be reality.  I don’t think it is possible to take psychedelics and shamanic entheogens without at some point asking oneself these questions.

  There is a famous thought experiment in philosophy: can we ever know that our experience is what we believe it to be, or could we just be disembodied brains in vats having our neuronal circuitry manipulated by mad scientists? In light of last year’s American election, when a clown in a toupée was elected President of the United States, the brain-in-a-vat theory suddenly seems quite plausible.

  I am neither a solipsist nor an idealist in the Berkeleyan sense: I do believe that other people exist in meaningful ways, and not just because I have an idea of them. However, what interests me is the extent to which my ideas shape the experiences I have, and how they contribute to creating my ‘reality’. This is a big, and possibly unanswerable, question for metaphysics, but its implications are perhaps most evident in the field of psychology, where it has arisen in an pointed way for me in the context of making choices.

  Choice is a sword with two very sharp edges. One the one hand, choice is a luxury and a privilege; the richer, more talented, more successful a person is, the more choice they often have. But on the other hand, it seems to me that nothing is quite as likely to cause neurosis, dissatisfaction, and avoidable suffering. To give a very simple example, I can find myself paralyzed before a supermarket shelf of different washing-up liquids: which is the best? Which is the cheapest? Which smell do I like best? Which colour do I prefer? What can this one do that the others can’t? On a bad day, the decision-making process is painful, probably because this one choice carries with it a little bit of all the other unmade choices in my life. However, if I go into the local corner store which stocks just one size and type of washing up liquid, I will buy it and be perfectly happy.

  In small ways, I can find myself undone by choice. I am now consciously attempting to prevent those small ways from becoming bigger ways. For instance, I attend Tai Chi classes here in Athens. There are mornings when I don’t feel like going; I’m tired, or it’s raining, or I just don’t feel like it. I am currently experimenting with pretending that I don’t have a choice. I don’t allow myself to go down the decision-making path. Just do it. And I have to say that so far I feel much better for it.

Washing-up liquid and a Tai Chi class are of course very small things, but it is good to practise with the small things. The bigger things are, perhaps, choosing to move to Greece. I have moved to different countries and different cities in the past, but always in a provisional, transient way. I feel differently about this move, and that is having a beneficial effect on my own habitual inner restlessness. It is also, I think, the right kind of preparation for committing to this new career, and possibly even to a person.

  Maybe I have just been rather slow to adopt this strategy. Years ago, I joined a Canadian-American friend in a cross-country skiing marathon from Norway to Sweden. My friend is affectionately known as Captain America, owing to his chiseled chin and robust all-round competence. I had flu on the day of the marathon and was running a temperature, not at all pleasant in -20 degrees. My progress was very slow, also because the phlegm in my lungs kept making me retch. My friend stuck loyally by my side for the first 30 kilometers or so, then – in a moment reminsicent of a Vietnam movie – I persuaded him to  push ahead at his own speed. Captain America’s parting words to me were, ���Remember: failure is not an option.’ I am not sure whether I found it all that motivating at the time, but now I recognise the effectiveness of that attitude.

  But for me there is one problem with this approach, and it is a problem of intellectual consistency. Unfortunately, the pretence that I don’t have a choice does not sit well with my commitment to the existential perspective, as formulated philosophically by Sartre and psychotherapeutically by Irvin Yalom. Central to the existential perspective is the recognition that we have total choice, and total responsibility for our lives. There is no human ‘essence’; it is up to us to make of ourselves what we will. We are ‘condemned’ to be free, and any attempt to shirk that freedom is intellectually dishonest, personally inauthentic, and breaks faith with life (Sartre terms it ‘mauvaise foi’, bad faith).

  Is my pretence that I don’t have a choice an example of bad faith? I’m not sure. It is a strategy that enables me to circumvent my own neurotic tendencies, a strategy that would have prevented Buridan’s ass from starving. Indeed, Buridan’s ass may have had a very happy life had he adopted it. And in my own case, it has not made me shrink from life. Quite the opposite: I have committed to Greece, to landscape painting, to learning Greek, and to practicing Tai Chi… all of these are slow processes, and this strategy helps me get over the little ups and downs. But I would not have been able to make these changes and commit to these things if I had not recognized my essential freedom in the first place.

  This conflict is just a shadow of the more serious one that arises from my growing conviction that there are karmic principles at work in our lives. I am increasingly persuaded by the sages, mystics and monks who believe in reincarnation and who say that the point of our many lives is to lead us, finally, to liberation. There are many things I don’t understand: what aspect of ‘us’ gets reincarnated? How is it all organised? How can there be more people alive today than ever before? But what I like about reincarnation, and what seems intuitively correct, is that there is a point to our lives. Every new incarnation gives us the opportunity to burn through the accumulated negativity of past incarnations. Nothing happens by chance. The relationships that we have in this life are reconfigurations of similar constellations from the past; they repeat themselves until they have been fully resolved. When ‘bad’ things happen to us, they present us with the opportunity to resolve the blockages that are holding us back, and to grow in precisely the ways that we need. This is the amor fati of the Ancients; but is it true? Or is it just wishful thinking, the Panglossian optimism that Voltaire ridicules in ‘Candide’?

  A part of me wants to follow Pascal and his wager: we can never know for sure, so why not believe what is most beneficial? There is no doubt that I am happier believing that there is a point to my life, that it is one of many lives, and that suffering has a reason and a purpose. Of course, one cannot choose to believe just anything. But I don’t have to try to force myself to believe this; it is in line with my intuitions.

  As I have already indicated, I am increasingly persuaded by the idea that we are involved in creating the reality that we experience. Convince yourself that failure is not an option, and you are more likely to succeed. But does the same hold in the field of metaphysics? Do our thoughts, either individually or collectively, create the ‘reality’ we experience? I think that probably is the case: in significant ways, we think the world into being. The objective and subjective worlds are not completely distinct; if they are separated at all, it is only by a porous membrane. If you believe in reincarnation, then the belief alone may be enough to make it true. This is the perspective of many peoples and cultures down the ages: thought is primary and thinking (or dreaming, ‘dream-time’) creates the reality we experience.

  Interestingly, there is no way to disprove this theory. If Western science looks at indigenous beliefs and shows them to be false – i.e. a mistaken representation of the way things really are – this is in fact exactly what the indigenous perspective would expect, since Western science is also just another reality that has been thought into being.  There is no ‘way that things really are’; there are just different ways of thinking, and these create different realities.

  Belief in reincarnation and the doctrine of karma also seems to presuppose a deterministic world. I once consulted a Vedic astrologer in South India; his reading of my natal chart was astonishingly accurate, and specific. I questioned him about the assumptions underlying the reading. He confirmed that, from the Vedic perspective, the world is fully determined. The outcome of this life, and of all future lives, is already known. We will never change the course of our lives – even the changes that we think we make have already been determined – but we can watch our lives unfold with curiosity.

  Does this make life pointless and boring? Not at all. The Vedic astrologer drew the following parallel: Harry Potter’s life has been fully determined by the author, nevertheless, Harry himself does not know the outcome, and his life in each book is still vitally interesting to him - he believes that he is meaningfully shaping his future, although the author has already decided it.

  What to make of this parallel with a fictional character? If thought creates reality, then in a sense we are fictional characters, either created by ourselves, or by some much greater ‘author’. Can this parallel shed light on the question of how to resolve the conflict between the radical freedom of existentialism, and the determined universe of reincarnation and Vedic thought? I don’t know, but I feel that resolving this conflict – at least to my personal satisfaction - may be the major intellectual task of the rest of my life.

  In fact, it is a task that I have already embarked upon. Part of the reason why I am attracted to Zen Buddhism is because it appears to take one beyond rationality, to a world of pure awareness, a world that is not subject to the rules of thought, and that transcends conflicts of logic. The point of the Zen koan, as I understand it, is to shake us out of our ordinary way of thinking, and to give us an intimation that the world in its suchness is not as we assume it to be. These ideas are hard to frame in language, because language is itself a function of the rules that govern thought (non-contradiction, identity and so on); what Zen attempts to convey is a different perspective, beyond reason and hence also beyond ordinary language.

  In the end – at the end of life, at the end of thought – perhaps the best model is provided by the ancient lama in Rudyard Kipling’s ‘Kim’. At the end of his pilgrimage, he returns to the mountains and says: ‘These are indeed my hills. Thus should a man abide, perched above the world, separated from delights, considering vast matters.’

  *

  I am finally content where I am, and not ready to perch above the world, separated from delights. But nor am I free from all anxiety. I do, for instance, wonder whether I will ever be able to paint landscapes that will match the images in my head. But here again Jiro Dreams of Sushi has provided me with inspiration. From that film, I learnt that a sushi chef in Japan spends the first two years of his career just learning how to make rice. One cannot rush things. Start small, and stay the course. In my own case, I will start with still lives, and little by little, improve my technique (should you wish, you can follow my progress via instagram: konrad_ratibor_bohemian). If I find flow, and practise diligently, then I am hopeful that one day I will create work that I am happy with. But perhaps, in order to retain the sense of purpose, one must always keep aiming a little bit higher, as Jiro does.

  The life of an artist may seem very self-involved to you. It often does to me. But then I think that perhaps the greatest contribution that anyone can make is to find a way of life that makes them happy, and to share the path that got them there. Maybe in the end it can be the artist’s life that inspires others to follow their own passion, whatever it is, and realise happiness for themselves. I will conclude with Dr. Hollis’ formulation of the same sentiment in ‘What Matters Most’:

  ‘Maybe all of us will learn to grapple with the paradox that living our lives more fully is not narcissism, but service to the world when we bring a more fully achieved gift to the collective. We do not serve our children, our friends and partners, our society by living partial lives, and being secretly depressed and resentful. We serve the world by finding what feeds us, and, having been fed, then share our gift with others.’

[venividivici-2018]

From Ancient times to Modern ones, a place of magic!

     When you think of Southern Europe, you almost instantly think of the sparkling blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea, home to many fish species and almost 10 % of the world's marine species. Its beautiful coastline, the rich historical value shown over the centuries make you think how you will swim during your holiday.

     When I think Italy, the gladiators arena comes to mind and I wonder how life was in those times; I think at the Roman Empire that was almost all Europe at a point, I think of the impressive buildings that can be seen today still, the sandy beaches, the steep coastlines and the delicious famous Italian cuisine!

     Recently, I embarked in a 4 days trip in Italy, to see the magical (in theory) Sorrento, Pompeii, Vesuvius and Naples. I was going to try to dip my toes in Tirenian Sea, to eat “vera pizza”, to see and live the history of the ancient Romans. 

    As always, I had done a bit of my homework regarding the places I was about to see. I wanted to be sure it was worth the money AND IT DID. I’ve read some articles in newspapers, looked online and saw news about La Cosa Nostra, I saw the top 20 tourist attractions of the Amalfi Coast and I was fascinated by the style of the authors I read, by the steep rock walls ending in the sea and by the colours of the buildings in the pictures.

     I could already see myself being Russell Crowe in his gladiator armour, in the small Amphitheatre in Pompeii.

     For four days, I was in “Far Far Away Land”, yet in our time, on narrow, busy streets, with horn in traffic and very symbolic gestures of the drivers... if you know what I mean. 

     ...But I also saw the story continue in posh restaurants, emblematic buildings, fairy tale landscapes, which everyone with a cultural interest should see at least once in a lifetime. If you want to see a bit of history and gaze at the scenery, that’s the place to go. 

History and angry Gods - Pompeii

     Pompeii has shown me how insignificant is man facing nature, that we need to respect it and get to know it, because its revenge can prove beyond imagination... 

     24 august 79...rivers of lava and burning ash made thousands of victims and stuck in time an entire city. Wandering its perfectly aligned streets, you can’t help but think about history’s greatness.

     Along with our very enthusiastic guide, we explored some of the main landmarks, such as: the gladiators’ quarters, the big theatre, the brothel, the thermae, the forum, the basilica, Apollo’s temple, casa Vetti. 

A force of nature - Vesuvius

     “People forget that Mount Vesuvius is an enormous landfill used by the Camorra to dispose of waste”, mayor Saviano explained in a video posted to his Facebook page. The fire they had a while ago, which burned a large part of the forest on the volcano, is attributed to the Mafia. Whether this is true or not, is to be debated, but I’d rather focus on the place itself.

      The crater is, in fact, in another crater, which represents the former volcanic cone Monte Somma, destroyed by the 79 eruption; inbetween, there is the Valle del Gigante; this is why, looked at from far, Vesuvius seems to have two peaks: Vesuvius itself and Monte Somma, slightly smaller.

     I was one of the adventurous members of the group and I climbed all the way up, hoping to defeat the rain and the clouds, just to see the crater. Unfortunately, the fog was more than my camera could deal with; memories remain only in my mind, along with the very sweet taste of a glass of wine I had coming back, at the tiny old shop/pub with ambitions of tourist stop.

Controversial Naples

     Following a famous saying, “Vedi Napoli poi muori” - See naples and then die (some say it’s actually more to the point, “see naples and then Mori”, a town nearby), we wandered a bit through this city of contratds, although the rain showers didn’t allow much. So in the few hours we had, we tried to cover as much as possible of the historic area, which is part of the UNESCO World Heritage.

     You can see the streets making Spaccanapoli (Via Benedetto Croce, Via Tribunali, Via San Biaggio dei Librari), going side by side with the ever-present vespas, you can have a quick, strong espresso at a coffee shop shaded by Sant Angelo a Nilo church, then you can go on San Gregorio Armeno, to look at the miniature shops for tourists.Of course, another place to go is Piazza Plebiscito, withe the church of San Francesco di Paola, and the Umberto Galleries. 

     I would have liked to explore more and see if Naples is worth coming back; so far, I am not so convinced and I must say, as well, that the famous pizza was both bad and expensive to my taste.

Sorrento - fussy and posh

     The charming Sorrento is one of the best placed resorts in Italy; it is relaxing, picturesque and sunny; its location, on one of the most beautiful parts of the Italian seaside, has made it famous among tourists. Yet, despite its fame, Sorrento has no proper beaches; it is set on a cliff above sea shore. It is a small town full of holiday makers, with posh shops and quiet pedestrian streets; the sea can be admired in all its glory from small parks up above, or going down ashore.

      The closest small beach is near Marina Picola, where you can go using the stairs or a lift through the rock, for 1 euro a ride. There is also Marina Grande,  easy to reach from the historical centre.

     Piazza Tasso, a city landmark, is spectacular; historic buildings, wide or narrow streets, shops, posh restaurants, gellaterias, souvenir shops.

     If you’re hungry, an elegant and cosy restaurant is there for you, Il Leone Rosso; the pizza guy was really skilled and fast (he called himself Speedy Gonzales) and was happy to have some free advertising. 

      Don’t forget to try the limoncello, the traditional liqueur produced from the zest of the lemons grown in this region; mind you, it has 35% alcohol, so don’t over do it. If you enter one of the small family owned factories on the commercial street, you have the opportunity to be explained and shown the whole process of the making, while sipping some limoncello.

A final thought

     As I said at the beginning of this virtual tour of the Amalfi Coast, the information I had before travelling there, made it a very appealing destination for me; the articles I read and the pictures I saw made me very eager to go and decide for myself if it is indeed as nice as others say, or if they sugar-coated it.

     Beyond the magnificent views along this region, Costiera Amalfitana, as locals call it, impresses not only because of the architecture and artistic monuments, but also because of the ingenuity of the locals in building their homes on the steep land. After all, the beauty of it all has been acknowledged by UNESCO, as the Amalfi Coast became part of the World Heritage in 1997.

     So yes, I believe the media had a rather big influence on my perception of this part of Italy and I also believe that the sources were truthful. Once I went there, my perception stayed the same, as I haven’t felt disappointed almost at all. Well, the weather was not great and I have tasted better pizza in my life, but those are just details which cannot shadow the overall experience. I enjoyed every bit of landscape, I dipped my feet in the sea and felt the sand of a beach discovered by chance, I took my wife to a posh restaurant and took pictures everywhere I could. 

     My advice to the reader? Give it a go, I can guarantee that you won’t regret it.

[entheosedizioni]

Come scegliere un romanzo

Se siete lettori seriali, vi potrebbe capitare di finire un libro e non sapere cosa leggere. Scegliere un romanzo non è una cosa difficile in quanto ampia è la proposta editoriale. Ma, è vero che, grazie anche a questa importante offerta, ci si trova a volte spaesati. Scegliere un romanzo: da dove cominciare Non importa se online o in libreria, dobbiamo acquistare nuovi romanzi. Abbiamo finito la nostra lista di libri oppure siamo in un mood per cui, nella nostra lista di libri già comprati, non troviamo nulla che ci invogli a leggere. Vaghiamo in libreria (o scartabelliamo il nostro e-reader): è tassativo: non si può uscire dalla libreria senza almeno un romanzo (specie se non abbiamo libri nuovi da leggere)! Cerchiamo tra i nostri generi preferiti: se siamo in libreria guardiamo i titoli e leggiamo la sinossi del libro; se siamo online, leggiamo tutte le recensioni. In questo caso dice Pennac in “Come un romanzo”: "Il tempo per leggere, come il tempo per amare, dilata il tempo per vivere". Quindi non possiamo uscire dalla libreria senza avere comprato qualche libro. Scegliere un romanzo poliziesco o thriller

Ci sono autori straordinari, di cui avremo sicuramente letto qualche libro, ma non certo tutte le loro opere. Se amiamo il filone thriller/poliziesco un’autrice imprescindibile è Fred Vargas (potete trovare qui un approfondimento): ogni romanzo un successo, ogni romanzo un incanto. Se non si è ancora letto alcun suo libro, è tempo di rimediare, la bibliografia è vasta: dai romanzi su Adamsberg a quelli sul ciclo degli Evangelisti. Nel 2000 la Vargas ha prodotto anche una Graphic Novel: “Les Quatre Fleuves” (I Quattro fiumi). Non da meno, anche se di stile completamente diverso è Jo Nesbø, autore norvegese: tra i suoi titoli più celebri “Il pipistrello” o “Lo Spettro”. Tra i thriller polizieschi non può mancare proprio il citato Pennac: il ciclo di Malaussène, il famoso capro espiatorio. Romanzi geniali che tengono incollati i lettori. Comprare un romanzo di intrattenimento: il cosiddetto Romance

Se siamo appassionati o appassionate dei romanzi leggeri e di intrattenimento, quelli che fanno sognare e scordare per uno spazio di tempo la realtà, davvero grande è la scelta. Un tempo la regina incontrastata dei romanzi rosa era Liala. Per coloro che amano il genere è sicuramente un must. Più recenti abbiamo la scrittrice Susanna Tamaro o Sveva Casati Modignani. Tra i romance anche la scrittrice Susan Elisabeth Philips o la nostra Amabile Giusti con “Tentare di non amarti”. Scegliere un Romanzo Fantasy

Anche per quanto riguarda i romanzi Fantasy c’è davvero l’imbarazzo della scelta. Gli amanti del Fantasy non possono prescindere da “Il Signore degli Anelli” di J. R. R. Tolkien: probabilmente il capostipite del genere. Il Re del Fantasy. “Non t’impicciare degli affari degli Stregoni, perché sono astuti e suscettibili.” (da “Il Signore degli Anelli”) Cos’è il Fantasy? Il regno dove lo scrittore può liberare la sua fantasia e il lettore immergersi in scenari fantastici e meravigliosi. Come in qualsiasi romanzo, anche nel fantasy ci deve essere la coerenza spazio temporale, parafrasando la fisica aristoteliana. Il Signore degli Anelli ha tutto: una storia coerente, una grandissima fantasia dell’autore, e, immancabile nel Fantasy, la lotta tra il Bene e il Male. Altro libro di livello per quanto concerne il Fantasy è la Saga di Harry Potter di J. K. Rowling. Una storia che nasce in maniera “normale” con i problemi di un adolescente che sembra un disadattato e che, in realtà è un grande mago. In questo periodo il Fantasy si ispira liberamente alle tematiche dei romanzi cortesi del ciclo arturiano o si ispira a mitologia greco-romana, come a quelle vichinghe. Un libro Fantasy che si distanzia molto dagli altri è il Ciclo del demone Bartimeus, la tetralogia di Strout. Bartimeus è un jinn piuttosto permaloso. Il libro è scanzonato e divertente e difficile, in questo caso, distinguere il Bene dal Male. Scegliere un romanzo di Fantascienza

E dal Fantasy alla Fantascienza il passo è breve. Anche in questo caso segnalo solo pochi e fondamentali libri di questo genere. Uno su tutti, Asimov con tutta la serie sui Robot. Ma anche i libri di Dick. La Fantascienza ci porta in altri mondi. Diverso come genere dal Fantasy perché prende spunto da ciò che ci insegna la scienza e ne amplifica i contenuti. Diciamo che il Fantasy si rifà alla storia come la Fantascienza alla scienza. Scoperta di mondi lontani, di alieni, ma anche robotica e guerre fra mondi o guerre fra uomini e Robot. Se poi si arriva a mondi simili ai nostri con dittatori che prendono il sopravvento controllando con mezzi avanzati anche i nostri pensieri, si arriva alla fantapolitica di Orwell in “1984” o Bradbury con “Farheneit451”: il lieto fine non è assicurato. Il romanzo storico

Il genere storico è, ça va sans dire, quello dei romanzi che trattano temi del passato. Tutto il passato: un romanzo storico può rifarsi alla storia contemporanea, come a quella recente, come a quella medioevale. Nel romanzo storico, non essendo un saggio, si può inserire un po’ di fantasia, un po’ di pensiero dell’autore. Ma ovviamente cercando di essere il più possibili attinenti ai fatti storici. Cosa non semplicissima: ottimi romanzi storici vantano errori clamorosi nei racconti. Lo stesso “Il nome della Rosa” così noto e amato, ambientato intorno ai primi anni del 1300, riporta errori importanti sull’Inquisizione nel 1300, sulla disposizione delle biblioteche, sulla vita dei monaci o sulla caccia alle streghe. A tal proposito per chi volesse approfondire il tema molto interessante l’articolo di Annalina Grasso. In ogni caso, se pur non attinenti davvero alla realtà, questi libri storici hanno comunque un grande fascino e diverse chiavi di lettura. Forse gli storici storceranno un po’ la bocca su alcuni romanzi di Bernard Cornwell o di Falcones, ma restano pur sempre ottimi romanzi in cui l’appassionato di storia potrà trovare spunti di riflessione per approfondire. In Italia il capostipite è certamente “I promessi sposi” di Alessandro Manzoni. Importa a qualcuno che possano trovarsi errori storici in quel libro (e non sto dicendo che ci siano errori in questo romanzo)? Io ritengo di no, anche perché lo stesso libro del Manzoni è un libro di denuncia sul suo tempo, ambientato in un passato non troppo lontano dal suo. Acquistare i romanzi classici

Ho lasciato i classici per ultimi: perché, a parer mio, per essere un buon lettore bisogna necessariamente cominciare con i classici. Ovvero i romanzi che sono e saranno sempreverdi (per usare una metafora botanica): possono essere stati scritti 300 anni fa, ma sono e saranno sempre attuali. Coi classici non si sbaglia perché possono piacere e non piacere (ci mancherebbe, esiste il libero pensiero), ma di sicuro un romanzo classico ha qualcosa da dirci: contenuto, forma, pensiero che sia. Sui classici quindi consiglio di leggere davvero tutto il possibile (lo so, non basta una vita), o quanto meno cercare di leggere più autori possibili. Classici francesi (Balzac, Zola, Maupassant, Proust, Flaubert ecc.); classici russi (Dostoevskji, Tolstoj, Bulgakov, Čechov…); classici tedeschi (Goethe, Thomas Mann, Hermann Hesse…); classici inglesi (Laurence Sterne, Joyce, Orwell, Jane Austen, le Brontë e via di seguito) e, naturalmente, i classici italiani per poi spaziare in tutta la letteratura classica mondiale. Conclusioni Il mio consiglio spassionato è comunque quello di leggere, leggere e leggere. Non ha controindicazioni. Se, però, vi capita un libro che proprio non riuscite a leggere e procede a passo di lumaca, cambiatelo! Quel libro non fa per voi! N.d.r. Questi sono solo piccoli consigli nel mare magnum dei libri da leggere: una goccia nell’Oceano per iniziare la vostra ricerca personalissima. Roberta Jannetti     Read the full article

[entheosedizioni]

Come scegliere un romanzo

Se siete lettori seriali, vi potrebbe capitare di finire un libro e non sapere cosa leggere. Scegliere un romanzo non è una cosa difficile in quanto ampia è la proposta editoriale. Ma, è vero che, grazie anche a questa importante offerta, ci si trova a volte spaesati. Scegliere un romanzo: da dove cominciare Non importa se online o in libreria, dobbiamo acquistare nuovi romanzi. Abbiamo finito la nostra lista di libri oppure siamo in un mood per cui, nella nostra lista di libri già comprati, non troviamo nulla che ci invogli a leggere. Vaghiamo in libreria (o scartabelliamo il nostro e-reader): è tassativo: non si può uscire dalla libreria senza almeno un romanzo (specie se non abbiamo libri nuovi da leggere)! Cerchiamo tra i nostri generi preferiti: se siamo in libreria guardiamo i titoli e leggiamo la sinossi del libro; se siamo online, leggiamo tutte le recensioni. In questo caso dice Pennac in “Come un romanzo”: "Il tempo per leggere, come il tempo per amare, dilata il tempo per vivere". Quindi non possiamo uscire dalla libreria senza avere comprato qualche libro. Scegliere un romanzo poliziesco o thriller

Ci sono autori straordinari, di cui avremo sicuramente letto qualche libro, ma non certo tutte le loro opere. Se amiamo il filone thriller/poliziesco un’autrice imprescindibile è Fred Vargas (potete trovare qui un approfondimento): ogni romanzo un successo, ogni romanzo un incanto. Se non si è ancora letto alcun suo libro, è tempo di rimediare, la bibliografia è vasta: dai romanzi su Adamsberg a quelli sul ciclo degli Evangelisti. Nel 2000 la Vargas ha prodotto anche una Graphic Novel: “Les Quatre Fleuves” (I Quattro fiumi). Non da meno, anche se di stile completamente diverso è Jo Nesbø, autore norvegese: tra i suoi titoli più celebri “Il pipistrello” o “Lo Spettro”. Tra i thriller polizieschi non può mancare proprio il citato Pennac: il ciclo di Malaussène, il famoso capro espiatorio. Romanzi geniali che tengono incollati i lettori. Comprare un romanzo di intrattenimento: il cosiddetto Romance

Se siamo appassionati o appassionate dei romanzi leggeri e di intrattenimento, quelli che fanno sognare e scordare per uno spazio di tempo la realtà, davvero grande è la scelta. Un tempo la regina incontrastata dei romanzi rosa era Liala. Per coloro che amano il genere è sicuramente un must. Più recenti abbiamo la scrittrice Susanna Tamaro o Sveva Casati Modignani. Tra i romance anche la scrittrice Susan Elisabeth Philips o la nostra Amabile Giusti con “Tentare di non amarti”. Scegliere un Romanzo Fantasy

Anche per quanto riguarda i romanzi Fantasy c’è davvero l’imbarazzo della scelta. Gli amanti del Fantasy non possono prescindere da “Il Signore degli Anelli” di J. R. R. Tolkien: probabilmente il capostipite del genere. Il Re del Fantasy. “Non t’impicciare degli affari degli Stregoni, perché sono astuti e suscettibili.” (da “Il Signore degli Anelli”) Cos’è il Fantasy? Il regno dove lo scrittore può liberare la sua fantasia e il lettore immergersi in scenari fantastici e meravigliosi. Come in qualsiasi romanzo, anche nel fantasy ci deve essere la coerenza spazio temporale, parafrasando la fisica aristoteliana. Il Signore degli Anelli ha tutto: una storia coerente, una grandissima fantasia dell’autore, e, immancabile nel Fantasy, la lotta tra il Bene e il Male. Altro libro di livello per quanto concerne il Fantasy è la Saga di Harry Potter di J. K. Rowling. Una storia che nasce in maniera “normale” con i problemi di un adolescente che sembra un disadattato e che, in realtà è un grande mago. In questo periodo il Fantasy si ispira liberamente alle tematiche dei romanzi cortesi del ciclo arturiano o si ispira a mitologia greco-romana, come a quelle vichinghe. Un libro Fantasy che si distanzia molto dagli altri è il Ciclo del demone Bartimeus, la tetralogia di Strout. Bartimeus è un jinn piuttosto permaloso. Il libro è scanzonato e divertente e difficile, in questo caso, distinguere il Bene dal Male. Scegliere un romanzo di Fantascienza

E dal Fantasy alla Fantascienza il passo è breve. Anche in questo caso segnalo solo pochi e fondamentali libri di questo genere. Uno su tutti, Asimov con tutta la serie sui Robot. Ma anche i libri di Dick. La Fantascienza ci porta in altri mondi. Diverso come genere dal Fantasy perché prende spunto da ciò che ci insegna la scienza e ne amplifica i contenuti. Diciamo che il Fantasy si rifà alla storia come la Fantascienza alla scienza. Scoperta di mondi lontani, di alieni, ma anche robotica e guerre fra mondi o guerre fra uomini e Robot. Se poi si arriva a mondi simili ai nostri con dittatori che prendono il sopravvento controllando con mezzi avanzati anche i nostri pensieri, si arriva alla fantapolitica di Orwell in “1984” o Bradbury con “Farheneit451”: il lieto fine non è assicurato. Il romanzo storico

Il genere storico è, ça va sans dire, quello dei romanzi che trattano temi del passato. Tutto il passato: un romanzo storico può rifarsi alla storia contemporanea, come a quella recente, come a quella medioevale. Nel romanzo storico, non essendo un saggio, si può inserire un po’ di fantasia, un po’ di pensiero dell’autore. Ma ovviamente cercando di essere il più possibili attinenti ai fatti storici. Cosa non semplicissima: ottimi romanzi storici vantano errori clamorosi nei racconti. Lo stesso “Il nome della Rosa” così noto e amato, ambientato intorno ai primi anni del 1300, riporta errori importanti sull’Inquisizione nel 1300, sulla disposizione delle biblioteche, sulla vita dei monaci o sulla caccia alle streghe. A tal proposito per chi volesse approfondire il tema molto interessante l’articolo di Annalina Grasso. In ogni caso, se pur non attinenti davvero alla realtà, questi libri storici hanno comunque un grande fascino e diverse chiavi di lettura. Forse gli storici storceranno un po’ la bocca su alcuni romanzi di Bernard Cornwell o di Falcones, ma restano pur sempre ottimi romanzi in cui l’appassionato di storia potrà trovare spunti di riflessione per approfondire. In Italia il capostipite è certamente “I promessi sposi” di Alessandro Manzoni. Importa a qualcuno che possano trovarsi errori storici in quel libro (e non sto dicendo che ci siano errori in questo romanzo)? Io ritengo di no, anche perché lo stesso libro del Manzoni è un libro di denuncia sul suo tempo, ambientato in un passato non troppo lontano dal suo. Acquistare i romanzi classici

Ho lasciato i classici per ultimi: perché, a parer mio, per essere un buon lettore bisogna necessariamente cominciare con i classici. Ovvero i romanzi che sono e saranno sempreverdi (per usare una metafora botanica): possono essere stati scritti 300 anni fa, ma sono e saranno sempre attuali. Coi classici non si sbaglia perché possono piacere e non piacere (ci mancherebbe, esiste il libero pensiero), ma di sicuro un romanzo classico ha qualcosa da dirci: contenuto, forma, pensiero che sia. Sui classici quindi consiglio di leggere davvero tutto il possibile (lo so, non basta una vita), o quanto meno cercare di leggere più autori possibili. Classici francesi (Balzac, Zola, Maupassant, Proust, Flaubert ecc.); classici russi (Dostoevskji, Tolstoj, Bulgakov, Čechov…); classici tedeschi (Goethe, Thomas Mann, Hermann Hesse…); classici inglesi (Laurence Sterne, Joyce, Orwell, Jane Austen, le Brontë e via di seguito) e, naturalmente, i classici italiani per poi spaziare in tutta la letteratura classica mondiale. Conclusioni Il mio consiglio spassionato è comunque quello di leggere, leggere e leggere. Non ha controindicazioni. Se, però, vi capita un libro che proprio non riuscite a leggere e procede a passo di lumaca, cambiatelo! Quel libro non fa per voi! N.d.r. Questi sono solo piccoli consigli nel mare magnum dei libri da leggere: una goccia nell’Oceano per iniziare la vostra ricerca personalissima. Roberta Jannetti     Read the full article