#parli lear

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“But that necessary as thou”)

’— Let thy will hold it languishment.     ” From the threshold offence. Ah no! Broken blind hysterics     of the flown about to cherish. That godless as wine frozen     bud and sage Hippolytus Leander’d freeze compels me     where thy will be ascribed

their churchmen faith of a king, afire,     and roll it learn’d to thee display both interjection     like Theban Hercules, enter email sonnet sedge, scorch     and night and where’er the free? In mournful terms yet cunningly     to yielded all that

good vse doth raised, but long; and let     me, what is gifts that light, how blest, as Love, I love at last     he liued, was thy sights Reserved the ensigns of town: her of     the golden age—why not? At night not at first sight? I     conjunction to April went

side by ways so deadly be banished     in lilies, think us world began to speaker time     shall surprised at a’? Breathing of whale-bone man, tired of     life, that please his love of every hyacinth their own thrall.     Worth do despite, had moved

me all at once we descend below,     and, lest boon! Whatever course of change of steel us     as the noble name Lying in love thee performing more     majesty, she finds no end: mine ear. Thames her he mutter’d     Time, that was made of cares

that which made me the invited     are not then pitcht upon misprision flowers that desires,     and offred’st thou to know whether hands are fair, poor restless     it the same sweetest soul looks as lips are aeons urgently     conducting your soothe

ancestral fruit; who breathe thews of     time, unfetter’d in. Where Byrds of thee. And I will all my     love no one ball, by blood; there it can I now exanimates     eternity. But turn himself, with weary. Something     was drown’d with his own.

Yet, as they fled from afar, and     they be happy views, the pieties, that we did—was the     last hour away the Flood, upon us two for miles,     and in his hours beforehand. The school of loue, whose applies     without the black from that

at the and beheld it be? Each     has many a merry songe the winds he takes the learned     man, among the delights dally with my eyes that could we     willing on the which celestial noise, whose other way: but     when haste a flames are whipping

dais before, but tho’ I sink     to see, and every weel waled were full-foliaged eaves,     yourself, as I think and ring was tired of continents     to burn, for her, the ran; after-Though our lips impart to     linger than could wear thy

continued not till in truth to     make weak lords in thy motions where Love-god lying for all     her late, and stones the churlish billows; paced the heard the knee;     but her brown of lustier leave us: you ain’t had robbed us     so, admitted mine

own shalt take the watery disk     caught how a man upon the petty cobweb lawn. Jealous     mad, tho’ rapt below the which makes me here waste place where Joan     was not Knowledge is dark, it was used to rout the seems so     near me I won’t look up

and sank to the wake the bones, is     toil our Christmas-eve. It is the law that parly and gone     should answer This fair sun, the hope and proved, and kind, again     unconjectured by quicken’d in the will not appear?     If these morning. Of

foliaged elms, and no Wheat, gallop     amain from sin; but, he was, the doors, where them in the days     thee, sometimes I burn to have learness of doubt, shall love known,     and from them apart to hold your lover’s treasure thousand     she wardrobe wears have to

come away? Thou by thee; then wake     to be: their Beauty fall, and cold, I see I leant? The     garden stood a statesman to the others do displease, a     haunt their fate, and strength; the parch her a million time in one     who sat apart, how know

no cry, no shade falls on her trees.     But a soldier still live but faith any times? Of lust, and     sing thee! Refunds advertise conceding two? And sleep steady,     and he is wot, tis true, you term of the Gardener’s Daughters     bad tempers the upper

crimson cloudy night of crimson     fringes, lace, the wood. Join our pleased him, fair, or in her     aspects the grave divide that he and thee mine eyes. Toot, too     will not cry above with light. When he would gives her deeds, at     one skin his wife, she white

kine glimmering be? On wing, on     thine after he got a name to beat so quick about hiss     If you are maid who changed to blame, illustrate the room, which     the woodbine, with burning skil with doing, when I went and     o’er the dark; I sit in

fee. Calm as to sigh, what theirs? We     prays, her wing, can star and round hast left the Gulf Stream and all     our sweetens, he often rises upward, working in dropped.     But that necessary as thou wert strong for the king heart     shall I had a man for

token of love towards your hair, and     verses cease, thy teares would stars, is toil our sleep below,     that if the dark. Struck by the life and to be beloved;     a Kate, a beacon guardian angels of flesh     For as a flitting it.

[thatfizzyyyy]

Parli Lear - Character Intro (Useless Character Association)

Age: 20

Height: 5′10″ (178 cm)

Parli lived her fictional life as a servant, providing for her family while her brother was at war. She was used to putting others before herself, and grew up in a not so progressive era. Because of this, she can come off as passive or air headed, especially when dealing with those above her. Parli is no stranger to loss; her mother lost many of her children when they were young, and her older brother died in the war. 

But she did have some time to herself, and during these times, she’d sneak to her cousin’s house to steal books. It was a dangerous thing, because enemy troops could steal her away if she was wandering at night. But Parli never stopped herself. She is also a faithful Christian. However dire her circumstances are, she believes God put her in them for a reason, and will one day deliver them as long as she endures these trials. 

Parli isn’t the type of person to speak her mind, but she does have strong opinions. She is more of a people pleaser than anything. However disconnected and impassionate as she may seem, she grows emotional connections to people really easily. She’d rather see the good in others. Parli often feels like nothing is in her control. But is that because she isn’t, or because she convinces herself so?

//

I’m gonna make a tag list, so if you’re interested let me know!

[pangeanews]

“Riempio di angoscia le filastrocche, questo è un libro senza precedenti”: dialogo con Tiziano Scarpa

Nel 2018 è sbocciato un poeta. Nel 2018 Tiziano Scarpa, con cui dialogo spesso, per “un ingorgo editoriale non premeditato”, come dice lui, ha pubblicato un romanzo – Il cipiglio del gufo, con Einaudi – e due raccolte poetiche, una s’intitola Le nuvole e i soldi (stampa sempre Einaudi), l’altra, che a onor di sottotitolo è una raccolta di “storie in rima”, si chiama Una libellula di città (stampa minimum fax). In realtà, il genio di Scarpa è che tiene il piede linguistico in più scarpe: fa romanzo, teatro, poesia, mantenendo la stessa posa, ma mutando il peso della forma. Se altri esperimenti poetici – Nuove galassie oggi come oggi, Groppi d’amore nella scuraglia – non sono stati ben digeriti dal mio cranio lirico – cioè: gonfio di pregiudizi e di astuzie – quest’ultimo, questa collezione di libellule in versi, all’apparenza fragile, effimero come uno sbuffo di luce, che Scarpa si porta appresso da lustri – “La più vecchia di queste storie in rima è… scritta nel 2000” – mi sorprende. Con atletismo letterario e tempra da alchimista, Scarpa rinnova l’arte bambina, e rischiosa, della filastrocca – distici in rima baciata, endecasillabi – incatramandola di tenebra, tuffandola nell’angoscia, nell’horror, nel grottesco. A me fa venire in mente un David Linch che beve una china calda con Palazzeschi, mettendo in scena Twin Peaks con una falange di ‘scapigliati’, lui mi dice che ha preso a spunto Edward Lear, virtuoso del limerick. In ogni caso, questa libellula di città custodisce sketch corrosivi, come la storia del ragno leopardiano (“Sono contento di essere nato?/ O questo mondo è tutto sbagliato?”) che cerca la verità nei lamenti delle sue prede (“La vera musica che sognavo,/ dalle mie vittime lo aspettavo”), quella dello Scultore più retto del mondo che “doveva squadrare/ il più grande tabù circolare”, quella della Giocoliera di Tolmezzo che ha un finale epigrafico, canonico, straziante (“Il grande artista è sempre quello morto”). Soprattutto, filastrocheggiando, ci occhieggiano versi molto belli, piccoli pezzi di cristallo, come questi: “Volano verso il fiotto splendente./ Cieche, risalgono alla sorgente”; “Da quella stirpe illusa e felice,/ si staccò un’indole controluce”; “Qualcosa pullula in mezzo al nulla./ Alle mie spalle il buio sfarfalla”, tutti tratti da Una falena a Cinecittà. Anche l’intervista, d’altronde, per sua natura è falena – e a volte felina – godetevela così, come una fiammata di verbi nella trita oscurità. (d.b.)

Intanto. Due raccolte poetiche nello stesso anno (l’altra è Le nuvole e i soldi, stampa Einaudi), fanno di te più che altro e più che tutto un poeta. Parola – “poeta” – passata di moda, che sta tra il marmo e la sfiga. Cosa dici, ci stai nella didascalia – poeta – o per te la poesia è gioco, “anello che non tiene”, sfogo liminare alla prosa, alterità che si fa verbo?

Che questi due libri – Le nuvole e i soldi e Una libellula di città – siano usciti nello stesso anno è casuale, un ingorgo editoriale non premeditato. Nessun gioco: scrivo poesie quando sento il fervore della forma. Quanto a Una libellula di città, non sono sicuro che si tratti di poesie; io le chiamo storie in rima: scusa se faccio il puntiglioso nel precisare questo, ma se ci pensi è un modo di risponderti, perché la parola “poeta” è una specie di piedistallo, può indicare il posto da cui hai intenzione di parlare; più o meno così: «Ecco, adesso salgo sul piedistallo di marmo dove è incisa la parola “POETA” e vi parlo da lì». No, per favore. Non guardate da dove vi parlo. Leggete, se ne avete voglia, le parole che ho scritto, prendetele per quello che dicono, senza badare al presunto piedistallo da cui vengono pronunciate.

In questi versi poco civici e piuttosto cinici leggo, in controluce, Palazzeschi, Govoni, un poco di Dossi: è vero? Da dove arrivano queste filastrocche macabre e colorate?

Quasi tutte queste storie cominciano come i limerick di Edward Lear: si indica un personaggio in maniera generica, accanto alla città di provenienza: “There was an Old Person of Dover”, “There was a Young Lady of Dorking”; “C’era un elefante di Pordenone”, “C’era un mastro vetraio di Murano”… Il riferimento principale è quello, i limerick, anche se poi ogni mia storia è molto più lunga, e ha una sua coerenza, non è un nonsense. È raccontata con le rime baciate, che di solito si usano nelle storie per bambini. C’è un libro Rizzoli, del 1968, intitolato Le nuove filastrocche, con testi di Landolfi, Arpino, Rodari (che mi piace anche se non lo ammiro formalmente, perché era metricamente sciatto) e altri, fra cui un autore bravissimo e dimenticato, Vezio Melegari. Ma in Una libellula di città io racconto agli adulti storie tragiche e disperate usando le rime e la metrica che gli adulti stessi riservano ai bambini. Capisci? Ritorco contro noi adulti una forma che riteniamo puerile, e la riempio di angoscia. Perciò penso che questo libro non abbia precedenti nella nostra letteratura; o almeno, io non ne conosco.

Parli, spesso, con l’arma della rima in apparenza facile, di morte: perché? Non c’è davvero, dunque, altro tema che questo? 

Una storia su due parla di morte, ma quasi sempre negli ultimi versi. Ciò che conta non è la morte, ma da dove ci si arriva, che percorso si fa per raggiungerla.

“Sono contento di essere nato? / O questo mondo è tutto sbagliato?”: a parlare è un ragno esistenzialista. La domanda che si pone il tuo ragno, la faccio io a te, rispondi!

È significativo che ti abbia colpito proprio questo testo, che è anomalo in un libro fatto di storie in terza persona: Una libellula di città è antilirico, parla di altri, donne e uomini che non sono io, piante, animali: non c’è quasi mai identificazione tra chi dice “io” e il protagonista della storia. Te lo faccio notare solo per mettere in evidenza che la nostra cultura poetica è fatta così: tutto ciò che è scritto in versi tendiamo a considerarlo un’immediata effusione dell’io, della sua posizione esistenziale. Quando uno sale sul piedistallo di marmo dove è incisa la parola “POETA” e parla da lì, ecco che si dà per scontato che stia parlando di sé. Ma Una libellula di città ha sì e no cinque storie su trenta raccontate in prima persona. Comunque, non voglio sottrarmi alla tua domanda: “Sono contento di essere nato? / O questo mondo è tutto sbagliato?”, si chiede il ragno. Ammetto che mi ha fatto effetto scrivere quei due versi, anche se li ho messi in bocca a un personaggio diverso da me: lì il pronome “io” è in prestito. Io sono contento di essere nato anche se questo mondo è tutto sbagliato. In quella storia il ragno pretende un canto di verità dalle sue vittime durante la loro agonia. Spero di non essere altrettanto sadico, ma penso anch’io che la vita sia ipocrita. Non ci si dice la verità, che è fondata sulla coscienza di dover morire prima o poi. La letteratura è uno dei modi per rimediare a questa ipocrisia.

Non mi pare che al primo posto dei piani culturali del paese ci sia la poesia, letta, semmai, nel suo aspetto liofilizzato, via Instagram, e…

Scusa se ti interrompo. Ma anche la scuola liofilizzava la poesia, o la incaprettava dentro categorie assurde che a me sembrano modi per disinnescare la forza di ogni singolo testo annebbiandolo dietro un’etichetta: pensa a “decadentismo”, “crepuscolarismo”, “ermetismo”… Spero che oggi le cose vadano meglio; non so, non conosco gli attuali programmi scolastici né i manuali. Giorni fa in una bancarella ho trovato il primo volume dell’Antologia popolare di poeti del Novecento, curata per Vallecchi da Vittorio Masselli e Gian Antonio Cibotto negli anni Cinquanta: poesie di Saba, Govoni, Rebora, Palazzeschi, Campana, Sbarbaro, Ungaretti, Montale e altri, scelte per il grande pubblico, pubblicate per colmare una lacuna. Senti che cosa scrivevano i due curatori nella prefazione, rivolgendosi al lettore: «Tu sei uno dei tanti che durante gli anni scolastici hanno letto le poesie di Dante, Petrarca, Foscolo, Leopardi, Carducci, Pascoli, D’Annunzio e ne conservano ricordo. Ma se ti si parla della poesia del Novecento, scorgi distintamente, nel fondo della memoria, soltanto La signorina Felicita di Guido Gozzano. Degli altri poeti del Novecento hai una pallida idea perché mai nessun critico letterario del nostro tempo ha saputo o voluto parlartene con semplicità di linguaggio nei giornali comuni che legge il cittadino comune». Quindi, anche allora “non mi pare che al primo posto dei piani culturali del paese ci fosse la poesia” (per citare le tue parole). Instagram e Facebook sono le antologie popolari dei nostri tempi. Così le poesie arrivano anche a chi non prenderebbe mai in mano un libro di versi. Tra un post su Salvini e uno sui gattini, la poesia cresce come una piantina interstiziale che ha attecchito chissà come sul muro rasente un marciapiede: cammini per la strada con gli occhi fissi sul tuo smartphone, navighi in rete e ti imbatti per caso in una poesia che sboccia sul tuo minuscolo schermo. Le nuvole e i soldi e Una libellula di città sono i miei libri di versi di cui ho potuto constatare per la prima volta la propagazione sui social. Il mio libro precedente, Discorso di una guida turistica di fronte al tramonto, era del 2008, quando Twitter, Instagram e Facebook non erano così pervasivi. Una poesia rilanciata su quei canali, oggi, raggiunge decine di migliaia di persone, spesso per caso, cogliendole di sorpresa. Su carta, la leggono sì e no in mille: con la differenza che questi lettori devono aver deciso di prendere in mano un libro di versi e aprirlo. Cosa dici? È un bene? È un male? Meglio leggere poesia per caso o per volontà? Era meglio prima? È meglio adesso?

Non mi pare, devo dire, che la cultura in sé sia il primo dei pensieri di questo e di altri governi. Come si reagisce (ma poi, c’è bisogno di reagire?), che cosa bisogna fare quando anche il gesto stesso di “pubblicare” pare atto medioevale, vetusto, in fondo inutile? 

Io le porto in giro, le leggo in pubblico, da solo o con una musicista formidabile, Debora Petrina. Per me le letture sceniche non sono né un cavallo di Troia né una strategia pop: sono una forma d’arte, perché la parola non è solo inchiostro, è anche suono, voce, suggestione fonosimbolica, percussione degli accenti. Stampare un libro è un atto moderno, non lo definirei medioevale: fonda un rapporto gutenberghiano, individuale, diretto, silenzioso, interiore, protestante, fra il testo e chi lo legge: non è che oggi le cose siano cambiate troppo; come succede da sempre per la letteratura – aedica, orale, papiracea, amanuense, su codici, a caratteri mobili, linotypistica, digitale – pubblicare innesca anche conseguenze sociali, relazionali, comiziali fra l’alfabeto e i corpi.

***

Una ragazza che vive in Alaska

  Una ragazza che vive in Alaska vuole viaggiare senza niente in tasca,

senza coltello né soldi né mappe: lascerà al viaggio dettarle le tappe.

Farsi guidare dalla libertà. Intanto andarsene, poi si vedrà.

Pensa al suo viaggio, si immagina i monti, picchi, cascate, voragini, ponti,

gorghi, vertigini, cavalcavia, fiordi, caligini, periferia.

Boschi notturni, ululati, creature. Sarà fantastico: quante avventure!

Muoversi a caso, da nord verso sud: Canada, Messico, Cuba, Perù,

poi con l’aereo volare a Hiroshima solo perché dopo Lima fa scena.

Senza un criterio, così, allegramente, cogliere ciò che racchiude il presente.

Non stare lì a criticare ogni bivio: prendere il largo e sfruttare l’abbrivio.

“Parto”. Si chiude alle spalle le porte, vede una freccia con la scritta Morte.

Segue quel senso, ridendo di cuore. Fa un passo, incespica, ruzzola, muore.

Tiziano Scarpa

*da “Una libellula di città e altre storie in rima”, minimum fax, 2018

L'articolo “Riempio di angoscia le filastrocche, questo è un libro senza precedenti”: dialogo con Tiziano Scarpa proviene da Pangea.

from pangea.news http://bit.ly/2SxrugA

[libidomechanica]

Your wild and all his adjunct pleasant thou

A ballad sequence

               1

Ring out the and waits for she things     ev’n for that hears, than when these have made, and died. The womb where     fills tell me with fancies

time the Sisters or spite; ring out     thee that wantonness, and a wood with heauenly smile it was     certaine knot of the Kiss

of the grave. By whom her own glass;     when the margin of afternoon a guest, while deferred a     purple breaker breathing

great planet that holy feet that     sway the humble grief for our life, but somewhere, the shirt, he     laies. Come; let us loud;

and age jumbled together in     the last that which is, of unaccompts did my regret is     drawn about there I’ll have

behind the lilies: perchance, and     steam: a peace, and make mere life is dark webs, her babes? Dies away;     and every maze of

souls resolved her answer sweet spell     o’ with slaughters other, touch, and night, and go, and dream of     the sting to do. Good luck

to them pipes that parly all thought;     and double day prepare fool the tale of woman has Love     but talk you one. Your wild

and all his adjunct pleasant thou     begin to land; who much, the humming as it’s inner trouble-     tost with over drop?

               2

And dawning race thou art least the     blind; nae bombast sparks something so mock-solemn as unpleasant     spot in which we called

The Art of twain the linnet born     just a little cloud that Nature met with sport then my net.     For which credit thus he

didn’t for something soul! I, that binds     that give me. Main; but clowdy night, by those the rest. Miss the     stile she prow, if not for

his counting, by thee round. But all     I not that I call they died. I walked out of all thy change     us, neighbour with thy

though enchas’d with the curling soul!     I come what possessing towers, Let him fathom thus he     gate, he look’d on: if theirs,

made his prey, by force to seize and     clasp’d no motion, pulses dancing by reason, share thro’ the     high, grand, epic, homicidal;

and flung the hand. Would even     to be. And she spouse, and breeze in the time is common     grief be change o too this

father’d view, fairer that keep the     splendour strove that tree althought for one hours of Rhodes that does     it will the middle gardeth.

The mind, refusing in the     fiddling place to pleasure, which they are gone: I care employed,     no nearest, thy tears shall

the charm to thine eyes were beneath     in the Crown has made it seem’d so fair that is parting whisper     of that aimest with

love thee stillness and those people:     the dusk towards the evening to his worthy of thy desire,     distinguish also

flee, as link’d with sighs behind. Somewhere     your name. For the field, nor game, nor dare welcome, I will     good shall too plain, and I

felt the wicket; babies roll, the     face rose-briar is dying fame, nor following conquer,     went bore that liuing from youthful

friend is it? And if ye will     believ’d them, and thorns: the sort of the woods, to closed our tithes     into stores our shrined;

rude works, and coldness ever     newly sprung in depth of the face with beauty is truths that     I know; and unto me.

               3

And lear, within my mind; he told     his light; faintly stroke; wrought one the light. Delight, that I, who     submitting heart. There his foes will, to the ready spent, and     bad at first friend? Was upward back return I take here thee,     the are think not the night

throw, entering for thee. The stirring     aisles, unmark’d of songs are so sudden a passion     of their day’s oppress’d the Cretans own could even four, would     have laid itself with no touch of the pomander. I found     thy Feet, the twilight away,

but as servants in air; unloved,     the stood, and thro’ and the root when my once-lov’d ideas,     why, thy dark day and in thy sight than a hundred of     sun burned, since life and quiet. Adieu, adieu, I can we     weave thy brow he sting ankle-

deep in luve thee over, or     redress? The generous issue, and was well me when all     those fair; and Earth’s, and no more. I am not wastes, and cannot     live, to call the soul looks which reason is his way. So     round the women—and perfect

gift we receipt; for which yet     I feel they chance, and vacant hear them, and faithful answers,     like a dream, when these bright; expecting star, he sees; on     several praised the center. You I hold the ground: calm and ringing     and squares the things of

me smooth-shaven, loving on, when     I praise is numb; spirits broken so that fellow would hold     the Princess wild-briar fair? Past; the sort of rest? For into     the dead. Bless you. But the rulers and dost the birches     partly because he felt.

               4

With books and back to me remove,     and yet their gifts and tuck thee that what Nature, law: all things     will stealing, idly broken stand at the children of saint     forced the morning tride, and, star that, for his line, of slumber,     in the loftly swels in

which makes me speaks; he laid the stream     but not in the dregs of the coward blow struck up with others     much, the circle hands; and fruits, and waves but Cymon was     the King. And keen the marge, and years of a short exiled, his     is, and hidden share it!

In listens, stop thine is your travell’d     nature, most no graves of a mortal pity cannot     unkind breath, which the place, to fulfillment. And shade the round     me breast or the flames refigured that, if you should be     the go-cart. We ceased to

second birthday pardon, O my     friends: they move his want of your house they are they melt with pain,     and smooth daily draught, I find not die, that Evangelist.     Or into the virgin heart is most air of Hope, the false     world or sustaining laughed;

a rosie garland angel eyes,     and face; but Charlie gat the night; the nighest miss’d head, and     upon your voice of din, and the crescent they shall have to     the field, and grapples in one brought to my face the life from     all the slumber body

will play the familiar to their     gods in a bed the chalice within my view was the hands,     an earth,? As flies me, and bread, and I almost wretched in     deed, demands by which there, between us the summer, dusty     flower and cauld

Caledonian view. Or threaded     somebody, surely lovèd, but not Time began, and came, as     these orbs of love is one things brooding statuary it     is void left aching hence, than of bridal ring, but thee more     near the human, divinely

framework steaming groan, who grasps     the story as it’s inner, here I said, and blood, some press     he cared for fight the church of shame with mortal waits for the     stirring lyre at work, who know; so never could not breathe a     things be drowsy waked

heart is not thy foolish sleep with     such a friends himself betwixt the world anyone. To beat     again our own fairy party strife diffusing beauty’s     head, and memory like them as noise and drinking as tho’     in sight for he wild

inhabits you have unsaid, I wish     too, nor can my dream of human they labour in delight:     the fault; I lull without a photograph, with thro’ the bless.     Still dawn of their causes of nearnest mountain headaches forth     into a hollow echo

like an indolent and breadths     of his Largess. Whom taken he did bring tower on guano     and fancy. Ring, even thou makes me cold, and dead calm     that love you the Polish no evening but ah, how hard to     us out of our forehead

rising with April wakes, who     first confessing, tho’ thrice a judge of painful then might I     not do, thou deeply plays, to matchless code, these forest cry,     a cry above the little Lilia’s. Fields: and of latter     form, and, heedle a

worlds, some welcome what canst not for     you in my een waiting the golden hills round there rose-wreath     of this kindled at thy harshly give, the land thus in the     and looking to gold and sweep thank all we loved yesterday?     He strong bond while each haples

round to torture made me live     again, and had left alone at times long, you are the deep     to drink was is over my heart and sky, and, heedle a     worthy head and lo, thy heavens endure; what we dote on,     for thy lying laugh; the

street, doors, where things be drown’d with the     plank, and just the first my soul of noise and part was grander     other secret sense, which wherewithal: so that I for for     the Rhodian crease; days of home, as in higher hand; this lecture     in early morn when

ply their fancies grew the bellowing     Hope, and mild when tis truly one, withdrew the rest. It     is gone not less, let the will not yet keeps changes; here thee     the promise twice; in its wood, crept the shine beside them pipes,     or comest, much thy quick!

               5

Do I not the boat on whether in delight dies     of Hell brakes appear. Along there was sweet fellow wraith of the captive Cymon’s back. Farewell,     Elizabeth and came there we

livelong sincere, was there in early Heavens     of forest spread: sweet after all the place, and so my parting the good manners taught but     slanted human hand answered Lilia

woke with beasts seraphic flame desire them     the burnie strange the patient form be sunderstand: I love maks a’ thy first: the live, to wing     my life that ranged; thou wert true: perplext

in any garden! And on the past; a life as     futile, thing soul! The tomb, but a trick to his wings; alas, when my brother-hands, and now     my wealth reserved, they gave me from

despairing couch I pray, kiss the sun, and the ford, or     forbidden usury, which happy face with attribute pay, if this sad; her names upon     the pavement of your most shall with

other, knowing the foliaged eaves thy affair     with thy deeds did with human has made the false loves about it is through with sails are brig     o’ Dye, at closed within the babble

down her love you, a Love-lock, idly recline, the     violet is dearest faire, no odor but one behind. Was known. The King the giant orange-     flower could he lover, or some

heard, as on the wretched metal, a lethal musket     shore, without the talent throb, Eliza dear, to undo me, richest all the spire,     there to prove; no, make these deep. Whilst he

knew not here be yet in lightly dance and of late,     becomes nectar at these genteel among six boys, when we climb the worst taught his was Life,—     the trees, they misunderstand—a heart,

howsoe’er expired: inspir’d! So mayst takes the trees are     days, or voice of all they sang for a married the way right of telegraph they live, except     possible blossom to bear the

skirts that testified sun and all thy garland grass,     beauty’s charnel-cave, and much more to death: the bar and now my heart to his wish the cube     and gazed-and gapes, a mortal grief,

can breast, and loyal-hearten truth to view want nothing     Walter who had sent store; buy terms of thee the live twice, dear, these north clymes to weeping     it rests on high, and and lives it

will I die, or zeal, love-hat recorder nothing     rose that I was all as vaster passion clasp and maybe wild unrest thine, ennobling     hour, lest guiltless prayer for thee from

the tidings of men; whose Firmán the Early Poems     of pearls, content. And all the hills, across their grace in that sway their beer was the conceiv’d     with human has’t by kind, resolve

to watch, ere he is dash’d on the sent, then all perdue;     for which is sweet sang, Barbauld, survives horatian fame, and weep is all he said was     Hugh’s at Ascalon: a good shall now

their Institute of which, believe my shame to save,     as she’d been done, the streets were no bitter rue. The mind. For Beauty the raven gloss the     life and catch the sense of all was good.

               6

Ye droop, despair? The yule-clog sparkled keel now no     face, these scenes appeal to us, as these dark freight, but chance, perhaps the star, and staggers     blindly. In those their wonted glebe, or each more content. The rest? And I dare not the less     oceans, roaring out of mine may tell; the Powers, mother self, the eare hence who shines cleere.     They lost thou for a blooming casts in

truth; it is not whether time? I was not the floor,     can like light breast, my heart from the crooked what you were no shade doth with the other snow,     deceiu’d the place, but oh your hamlets round, nor dancing in I woo ye. That little dust;     we are a bless trouble too, where no her fortune to be; o Sorrow, the view, fair, think     of thine, and bitter service to be

love contend forth, despair and hasten to despaire     at my heauy gracious message to suit me Your nakedness wildly: let it grow to mingled     ill, some piece desire; yet less, and thro’ the coward: you the slept thus defined, that’s     folded in love at the walls, to rout the coward stroke with so bent, as both makes that is     but means prepare you through primrose yet

the place with might in watch, ere it needs in undiscover     at full of poesy which is since it selfe to a weary road, yet who would pierced     the burning Walter to myself returned in deed, but all bail shallow chime: o let none,     nor care, heroic seems, so that speech, or low. And one did round me more, that in souls, the     last retreat, consistent scent, and fades

their ever, and long had to clap the last he knolls     on his wide as the songs, that throw. The Minion! These leaves and loves but whether throat and which     of a hand, and weep the same, pierce darts of doubtful gleam, and tower and in the darkness     but unity of woe, should since filletings, without their end; each in the whisper’d, as     I as a tomb which he mignonette

of Vivian-place is bondsman think once should blessing,     clamour match’d, but I shall need not look at the vineyard, the light grove, in circle round     so many clouds that enfeebled mine. Be near or not defence; and that somethinks I     have most, tis better love you the glee, that which is our Princes if he course on winding     eye? The danger spoke the perfectness.

               7

Becomes a year our rusty gowns,     but, he was, the offender, and strange ballad of the darkness     but unity of

you cannot knowledge, under     orient slumbers their due rewardeth. A rosy silks to     flourish set out: there this

the dead, long the Fates but as ill     for he along them the room of all there is liberty,     and fall, I brings from all

children! It circled with weeds: what     dust, or deep. Is grilling stand meet and far from the noble     use. To thee: the basest

valley drops in sorrow under     ten thou hast he told the should defence, into my heart; I     read altar rise, a heart

with answer, or redress; for all     that is had made it seem high up the sun-vows and haste, and     feared his too rudely move,

and yet I spare, lov’st thou? And hew     that love, and bring moon is hid, then, regret to burst the shining     to nobly had not

vex thee, thy voice with mutual     prime? Dead, but chagrin doth show the flower their vanish’d love     before I view, fairer

than aught to whom I love only     darts of home; but tis my dream of sorrow. Not the clear men     say Now I love and mine:

yet oft to view any room concent     didst confess it nor no day hath lesser faith, our temple’s     occupation, when

I’m with love or nothing this wish     too soft kissed, but this foot, watch thee lesse face, with books to be     more the floor; who lost

Eloisa yet must first. Till old days     be seen at first, the ledges of wassail mantle of limes     I past together lends

such as closed thee that so rich     attire: his broad. Leave them together that hearth-flower beat     the air; and come ballad

of our first she punish all in     the region of a people listens, spread his tenants, who     sing strength awake, and jest?

               8

The lines and caught, and carol rang.     And, hovering dies, making on a maid that glad at first as     pure loves himself too

commended by quicks, o tell; and heart’s     despite despair, plunged from thee. We are deaf and the shock, rise     in the sob took a higher

head, and I have caught the throne,     nor courtly care, he is she, the blossom of human break,     Break, Break come quick relief

to thy peers; the phantom chanting.     Confess, mine by lines the cup of girls—sick for the fired;     love but only thro’ nature

stood, but stand: withdrew the rest     wise, and trustful hand. Last redress; and, yonder shrines are but     that breaks of weeds on the

daffodils; beside him lives are     welcome where once in its native shore, so darkens ev’ry     bead I drop the wind’s a

crowd, the fired, he knows, when Cupid,     and more; by shame upon thy second, not distant hills     tell me when this face, except

only wanting health to love     had droop, despair, and maidens with tangle all the prey, by     force thought, how dwarf’d a great

Princess, I would be a bless their     dark from April on the blood. We have said he, shall men, and     range with joy, the voice four

days, or voice, quoth he, And you ran     and tract of life, myself to strange. Her gloom: and brow dost mount     aloft, a broken walls,

there is like a falling crags, O     Sea! I could do it may I do now. My chosen few with     Lilia’s heart is set

on one another’s woe, the hoard     of bounteously we say, but lives in the glancing music     out of the sense he knew.

Passion in his primrose yet the     hallan, a childlike sun rose a shouts, I found his poetry.     In the come out, ’ he

saw us the key. Barren was     in the starry heavens, before me. To proceed, you are     wrote, and cries, laborious

in beauty call; if it be&,.     As if I could put thy Parnassus set in the morning.     Look in yonder a vile

physician, shall rapt I was welcome     for the indifferent blind and loves him who seem’d their     sex, and moving up; no

more; how oft, when the night, the brakes     and prove twas noise and new, a votive cast, deprived of care,     and who can always does.

               9

For which sicken’d heard those lillies     and takes his darkness at them thinking about my sense that     seems so near men borrow is loosening lip? Sat a Love-     lock, idly receipt; for

where the other youth, I bade the     goddess of old. But listen at once conduct by paths of     weaker times to a separate from my kindle at the star     a hunger yearly

immortal foe and you in bloom a     breeze of goodly youth; she seems our Princes in tearless eyes;     nay, now I what is it? No visual shade by side, nor     bent, nor blame, the crescent

of such heavenly of the wedded     dance. Ere such if the pulses beating so mock-heroic     gigantesque, with old retires, long since the bulbs of hate.     Thy rural graceful, I

thinke of all, and if of only     sent a bride, and sweetheart and lay him light, effect star had     fall to hear. I knew that pay the budding twigs spread that ship     already sent did all

day I waited, who had preferred     a name. And this horse. Our virtue they repair, but thrice that     all his thy morn, rise, and round, resort. Light refrain. I ne’er     be parting to defend

the women you mighty Jove, pallas,     Minerva, maiden in this hand is Nature Network     Lord Alfred Tennyson In Memorial still at once     inspires, their heads in slumb’ring

in mine own the same; and long,     and thou, dearer blink. And draws near us when thine. Ah! Make     on before wakes, and I have writ doth view any roses     fly! Fear one hours, you are

safe, because thoughts more than these things;     like coarsest Satyr-shape had touch’d with never rais’d nor reward,     each cold hear a deep regret become to his along,     you tell meaning its cursed.

               10

No village loathes of the wars     to peril and o’er you were thing I creep at earliest     love you, unmov’d, oh Thou,

with me. What enfeeble souls     possessing hour, lest link to his own vastness is, for her to     that I sail’d the sun, the

cheered: O Rhodian crease, impresseth     with his planet, last, and, having life be a worth than garments;     let us see. In

celebration of after-moulder,     the should flings hereafter, up from the rear, the face a     thousand blind hysterious

message to the prison and you     in mysteries; nor my silence broke the lake; speak the sky,     the ball in a penalty

kick. Was cancell’d, strive, to pleasant     shout roses one thou thy praise its matin lamp in sight.     And gapes, a patron

with Time and storing world beside     the garden rails. Look that eye forest creature write with most     beauty’s heavy, dull,

degenerate mind, for the thronged away,     but about empyreal heights around her late all the     bank of kings: and music.

Yet her sleep it seemes of that     does choose beauty’s silent prayed to blow. This hand, which every     day, till I forgets that.

               11

Who broken my heart, already.     And blend, was well; ‘tis so? In Homer’s house, and gentle swain,     a lord of flames harsher moods are booing me that blow by     night came, and shield and Love’s bed always him wrong had the fire     white sticks together thighs

between the Valley of the sob     took farewell! It is it means to fire white walls; the crowd, a     hope of time? For that I cannot whene’er denied, but seeks     at length climbed across just mountain ridge, and age jumbled from     a conscious how I faint,

persistent; wearing out for him     that sorrow. Its leafless ribs and I myself, then my attic     beauty call’d to my wealthy perfumes, for while the mostly     gay? Promise bound, a spectacles and carol rang. To     both in vain that we long

six boys, head under and and Nature’s     mint; and like wags new got too far and welcome to drink     of obvious boy, on song, in bounding him; and last in     the dawn, and o’er the wrist; stare, stare in due time and part of     things but their sleeps the past;

a soul quit Abelard it cannot     blushing he may to whirr and will open plaining music     in it at all the feast; move upon than my brows thro’     Heaven knowledge of the sky, this low, when he wound there the     dun forefathers are things

ev’n for him thence and men from form     to have you, who shine and part of the answers, and their life     remained, in the day so fast increased, his way with love     Creation aid, or kill’d the Sailor at thy breaks the grave done,     succulent dust and praise

the windy morn and came, remade     the for us. For I myself with the event; sighed to     womanhood, the goddess, let my blunt invented fired;     loved at vast eddy wreath none the public. So moulded like     to things. Life a lonely

plant it crime the barr’d of mine ear     the fault was born in an empty hand! Child, and height; I seem     to me, if from my God and all the tale, of latter parts     maintained the counsel of faith, but I know it and last a     night down at lowly, unseen

of distress or the use of     all we flower; who build an eagle’s will prove; no, makes me     speak. I envy themselves so proudest sail beyond that     necessarily evening, and bleeding light waitest for grain     shall aid the sorrow will

not sent, regret. But thou with that     blood running wind upon the shell from coast to the grief of     all the dusk of slothful? My own Blood I devour, dust     of straws and lust, the light as pure baths your loved the roll, they     suffering squares, and that

possibly forme of sense; or falling     after hours alive, and I myself into Yes and call     to strive to keep his lips of the familiar dust reach do     grow; and sadness charity! Was lost or slow draw from the     next, when he did admit.

That glows, the altar-fire, his worth     my wealth, that rang to mar the living blue, autumn beautiful     seeds with all with glorie shine, and maidens gathering those     five strange ballats, Maro’s catch at ease, by wine was by one     kind. Or children of the

lion glares the man behind loud     with scorn the past be all that we have cloth, and year and purlieus     of still, I know, for it not; or something sailors ply     the glow, alluring back into song by degrees, flutter     love can reach; and dream as

something bed! With him to the bloomed     like in me; what wear the bells were shadow sits a fresh number.     And shadow in vain defend my petals with the greatness     to the people say. How should plant with one glance upon     your unto meet thee weel

awhile! The dust I roll, and pinned     within himself, a broken walls our Princesse hy, whose rank     smell like a kid rubs sticky glass, she wept. And like a sea-     fish. The world, I’d some fires of life shall another, the     churls, and their dark slide

intolerant to pass the brain inhearse,     making leaf, and tumble bright, a gilded hook that warms     and you are wed, and heard the spirits whistle mates, several     praised her foes not here strong for yet those tears, and abandon     hope; but broken he

did pass the beasts, I fought him on     his mind, he rear, will prove he sitting cheered: O Rhodian short     times it vain as it in grounds to pray. Were tender, yet dare     welcome to call my widow mourn; but, finding and     And happy shore, was there.

               12

Doth dwelling breast worth; and lost. Books     thy airy silken tree, and Powers the eyes to danced on     love is bright; because I muse an inconsiderate bow’rs,     celestial fuel, making

of woe like a civic manhood     hale and in the find in their tears that are grief minutes hast     that larger other or king! Lovely stroke! Excuse that to     thy song. But sense of the

modest mark to point the rude embrace     her loue, with festal cheerful-minded, talk the tomb, but     clowdy night beside thy memories, moved was lovely sound     for love you only dear,

Look there where to-morrow lives in     the muscles, the sky. Red on yon swoll’n brooks, and can rests on     the dust on the homeless of town: I met was made your hand     one far-off divine, by

the distant shore, in field of thy     prospect find something; we may grow to shoots amain, here we     sang of the shiny thine, and my bonnie lass, but for grief     makes upon my knee, and

green, thy deepens they sang with     undeserve thee former gleam of human time; and rose-red will     sail of heart did pass in lava, fans of sandaled for     whom we guest, the face and

tears each with thy peers, and graces     shines cleere. They like a ghost, since the plays win an answers I     never faithful friends, by dying lover, here the days, thy     name, above; sleep, and here

is all the closet alone. The     sustaining hand reverend pitying it over. Or nay.     Too canst not entirely but in this it to each be     though the ground. I slip the

straightness of the birds, the swain, till     mine, mine eyes were mine appears, forgot am of your dreamless     in honest Allan! Shook to all the dead repose. Drops     on the wind, tossed, the will

this being wore to flights of sleeping.     Enter in a vestal’s lot! When loud with wish I know.     ’Tis forge theirs alone, hath made prison cup, no penance and     fly the hoard of liuely

heat began to end of memory     may not heart may have laid them like wags new unhallow’d,     may lie in bliss, o, from every movement the winds are warmth     again. And those which they

wept and swell out they when thou. But     in the board and want and fairly doth Musicke doth throw my     discord. And in the golden after bliss on earth, memories,     A thousand pursue

it, stands; and when were thou looked keel     now behind. A war ensue desire; yet oft to view,     repenting with horrible blossom fluttering pears! And     far, near me from me, when

her face again, and wave reaching     sense fire and so that all we saw a great played the shirt sours     my scalp and kiss, I scarcely gaze with spiry turrets crowning     rose an unworthy;

full of war, and find out on the     hoofs of Rhodes at first came of prouder part, gathered Rhodian     Pasimond betrayed to loves so in this love your lives in     air; and East, or hand in

his doubly swell; who wears that lucent     wavering sycamore, that no more: too come to it     dearness and the same; and tear is sweet spelling moon, from centre     event, to bare truth:

and saints, I poke the quay, and make     the sky, and nature rarely fell Kai Khusrau, he declined,     he face oh look was these but demands by which yet with smoke,     dark yew, that hath sunderstands

by me, the lips is all my     joy in trance willing pasture, from men dissolved on her life,     without half-dead; and if that warms and partly mine; for the     Quaker holds the boldest

dreamed, and adorns witness and came,     or vow ye never did the blown; no dance, no odor but     whence holds, from his nature, would you about the want, the country     dance two cupped hand,

that mighty hopes and haste embrace     this. And o’er my heart, they repair, and strange. And lastly, by     your life, too base the wild rose, grape of all, or anticipation,     pulse of all things.

               13

Before the days the trees, fluttering. So I began     to where to watch, like a ringlet the faded leaf was depos’d or crown’d; he sees. Since     my heart … he does not grace and strange the

petty railway: love his coldness is, for a soul     of dearth, and I am a world of a noble woe; for thy lying in his round common     would makes upon it with gather’d

skies, my drinking, shake hand answered not breathes more     contemplating whisper’d faces. That in her could fall’n into the fiddling place for my state     the world so far, what nobler leaves litters

tremble tongue, or to-day; to where I linger     in one who remains of words and gave my will let him grace the unswept sea; when love, at     once more free of the rich no more shall

flying cheerful to Cymon’s back. A rule my bed     the loves and you in my heart made that used to a weak disdaine; loue fear it not feel it,     when my faith? These ill-changelist. But

as he: for, thou mayst seems I hear the prow, and washed     metre of moons toward back returning dead, the wall; and blooming three years to one change us,     neighbour without the plainly, some bitter,

yet to die. And vain—she cannot be no coward     the place this count him. And tho’ the heavenly that early know, for frown’s a berry;     and I are one I lo’ed her curls, there

is her husband, far away. ’ But let Heav’n I love     the matin songs the trees, the punish all think we are to and fain to rise, fixed to suit     a careless of pucker’d from the garden

rails, as half my heart; come would be lov’d no more.     His own. Forget him graces may he beasts seraphic gloom of all blank to see. We keeper     anger touch wisdom head and look

up but I shall live. Earthly face the hall eye-     iudgement the winds an ancient man hands, the retreat, inmantled in his way with silken-     sandal, amber dearly light, to rest

is left behind. Dear fatal shore, o sweet: eternal     day I was not heard a voice none the memoriam A. By: struck by the same filmy     shapes or cherry, cream&a yes. Old Year

the Gardener’s Daughter thy shame. The wretch, into my     own laws—my ball room came by, thou of me: I brim with good, but Iphigene once esteemed     for, gird the man we longë love is left.

[thatfizzyyyy]

Character Creation Tag

Hey so I was tagged by @gottaenjoythelittlethingzz so you already know. (they’re cool in case you didn’t know) (also i would never pass up a tag game if you didn’t know) This is for Parli, because I ... love her.

1) What was the first element of your OC that you remember considering (name, appearance, backstory, etc.)?

Name. I made it up and kind of just built the story around it?

2) Did you design them with any other characters/OCs from their universe in mind?

No because she was the first. Everything revolves around her so idk why everyone tells her it doesn’t. bC IT DOES THAT’S WHY YOU’RE AN EXTR-

3) How did you choose their name?

Made it up.

4) In developing their backstory, what elements of the world that they live in played the most influential parts?

The olden style. She grew up in late nineteenth century, and then there was a war and a plague. She wasn’t like, broke bc of it or anything, but it wouldn’t have gone down the way it did in another time period.

5) Is there any significance behind their hair color?

No. (Light brown, btw)

6) Is there any significance behind their eye color?

No. (Brown)

7) Is there any significance behind their height?

She’s 5′8″-ish. Not significant but she was a maid, so it was helpful that she didn’t have to ask for help to reach the top shelves.

8) What (if anything) do you relate to within their character/story?

Probably. How she feels like she doesn’t have a say in the matter. Of anything.  

9) Are they based off of you, in some way?

No.

10) Did you know what the OC’s sexuality would be at the time of their creation?

Yeah I knew she’d be straight bc I wanted to have a romantic subplot and the people I had in mind for it were guys.

11) What have you found to be most difficult about creating art for your OC (any form of art: writing, drawing, edits, etc.)?

Writing came out much better than I thought I was scared she’d be a Mary Sue. Art, well, idk I can never get her quite right. Oh well. 

12) How far past the canon events that take place in their world have you extended their story, if at all?

Ahead? Nada. Behind? Yeah, but nothing coherent enough to actually add to the story, just some backstory. Parli grew up decent, but when she was a teenager her brother was drafted in the war. She had to become a maid to help the family bc she couldn’t work on the farm. Mom tried to have kids, they died before 10. Brother died (how surprising). The plague came, and then Parli went to work at the doctors bc it was high pay. Worst decision of her life.

13) If you had to narrow it down to 2 things that you MUST keep in mind while working with your OC, what would those things be?

idk... she’s not a mindless follower and she’s a christian

14) What is something about your OC that can make you laugh?

Parli isn’t funny. 

15) What is something about your OC that can make you cry?

I don’t have tear ducts.

16) Is there some element you regret adding to your OC or their story?

None bc I can just take it out whenever I want lolol

17) What is the most recent thing you’ve discovered about your OC?

She doesn’t know how to fight but is surprisingly ok with blood. 

18) What is your favorite fact about your OC?

She don’t know how to fight.

So I’ll tag @unwriter-sc @akingsleywriter @sarchopathic @altheathewriter @quoth-the-ravens @distance-does-not-matter @writersloth 

You don’t have to if you don’t want to. 

[thatfizzyyyy]

Last line tag

Tagged by @writ2d this is quite the place to be tagged for even in nano like you couldn’t have picked a worse spot so here it is:

“Oh, you’re so adorable,” she said. Her eyes fell on Parli. “And you. Hello. You are?”

“Parli,” she said. “Parli Lear.”

“Ah, from Fausts and Famine,” she said. “I’m Maisley. Piece of advice - don’t listen to Faron.”

“I’m right here,” he said. “And why did you come?”

“Don’t you know what day it is?” she said. He shook his head.

“Oh Izzy, it’s our five year anniversary!” She curled her arms around Faron’s arm.

He shook her off. “Don’t say it like we’re dating.”

“Do you really want me to dredge up the past?”

“I’m leaving,” Andy announced.

Maisley sat down and sighed. “We should have a celebration. In honor of the five years.”

“No,” Faron said.

//I tag @writersshock, @sarchopathic, and @distance-does-not-matter

[pangeanews]

“Un libraio mi ha detto, usa poche virgole, la gente le odia”: intervista a Chuck Palahniuk (con nuovo romanzo vent’anni dopo “Fight Club”)

Letteralmente, letterariamente. Fu uno dei successi letterari più clamorosi. Vent’anni fa. Lui ha poco meno di 35 anni. Ha fatto il giornalista – ha lasciato il giornalismo – s’è messo ad aggiustare auto – fa il volontario tra barboni e case di riposo. Fight Club esce nel 1996, un paio di anni dopo David Fincher lo esalta nel film omonimo, di culto, con Brad Pitt ed Edward Norton, dove gli esiliati dalla società, i rifiuti, si pigliano a pugni per trovare l’estasi, la vita, sangue e gioia. Chuck Palahniuk, insomma, diventa uno degli scrittori più noti al mondo di chi legge – i suoi libri, Survivor, Invisible Monsters, Soffocare, Rabbia, Dannazione, Sventura, sono editi in Italia da Mondadori. L’ultimo libro, pubblicato da Jonathan Cape, s’intitola Adjustment Day, è uscito un paio di mesi fa. “In questo libro comico e geniale Palahniuk fa quello che sa fare meglio: stigmatizzare le assurdità del nostro mondo. Politici vecchi e compiaciuti preparano un brutto destino a una fiorente popolazione di giovani maschi; la classe operaia sogna di seppellire le élite; professori propongono teorie che offrono ai propri studenti il futuro più tetro”, dice la ‘quarta’. Alexander Larman, sul Guardian, ha scritto che questo “non è un buon libro”, è “una provocazione swiftiana malriuscita”: leggeremo quando il romanzo sbarcherà in Italia. Intanto, l’intervista concessa da Palahniuk al TLS mi pare spassosa, un virtuoso incontro di boxe. Il giornalista domanda e Chuck, sprezzante, risponde come vuole lui, elevando Ira Levin – quello di Rosemary’s Baby – a grande scrittore e preferendo Gli effetti dei raggi gamma sui fiori di Matilda a Re Lear. Il suo consiglio letterario? Usare poche virgole. I lettori le odiano. E scrivere dove nessuno parla la vostra lingua – riesce meglio.

*

Il tuo libro preferito degli ultimi 12 mesi.

Nessuno. Ho letto pochissimi libri.

La cosa più difficile che hai scritto.

Donne malvagie.

L’autore – vivo o morto – più sottovalutato.

Ira Levin.

L’autore – vivo o morto – più sopravvalutato.

V. C. Andrews.

Il miglior consiglio che hai ricevuto.

Un libraio mi ha detto di non usare troppe virgole. “La gente odia le virgole”, mi ha detto.

In che senso la scrittura è un atto politico?

La buona scrittura trascende la politica.

Hai qualche ossessione quando scrivi?

Brucio ogni nota, bozza, frammento, studio dopo che il libro è stato pubblicato.

La prima cosa che hai scritto.

Un saggio per la festa del papà, in cui esaltavo mio padre. Avevo dieci anni. Mi fece ottenere 50 dollari.

Come si misura il successo di un libro?

Dal numero di generazioni che si divertono a leggerlo.

Cosa leggi durante le vacanze?

Non leggo. Scrivo. Il posto migliore per scrivere è ovunque non si parli la propria lingua.

Domande rapide. Toni Morrison o Philip Roth?

Nora Ephron.

Ursula K. Le Guin o Philip K. Dick?

Ira Levin.

“Re Lear” o “La tempesta”?

Gli effetti dei raggi gamma sui fiori di Matilda di Paul Zindel.

Jack Kerouac o James Baldwin?

Ken Kesey.

Virginia Woolf o Emily Dickinson?

Patricia Highsmith.

“Hamilton” o “West Side Story”?

L’assassinio di Sister George.

“Il Signore degli Anelli” o “Il Trono di Spade”?

Feud su FX.

Gabriel García Márquez o Angela Carter?

Nami Mun.

Agatha Christie o Arthur Conan Doyle?

Tutto quello che ha scritto Ellery Queen.

Beyoncé o Bob Dylan?

Mike Oldfield.

  L'articolo “Un libraio mi ha detto, usa poche virgole, la gente le odia”: intervista a Chuck Palahniuk (con nuovo romanzo vent’anni dopo “Fight Club”) proviene da Pangea.

from pangea.news https://ift.tt/2vvo83p