°°°° LETTI 2012 °°°° Amelie Nothomb : Diario di rondine Amelie Nothomb : Acido solforico Chuck Palahniuk : Gang bang John Grisham : Ultima sentenza Jonathan Safran Foer : Ogni cosa è illuminata Ian Sansom : Galeotto fu il libro
°°°° LETTI 2011 °°°° Niccolò Ammaniti : Come Dio comanda Thorsten Havener : So quel che pensi Littman-Hershon : Io odio la gente. Come liberarsi dagli idioti in ufficio e ottenere soddisfazione dal lavoro Woolf : Tutti i romanzi Gianluca Morozzi : Colui che gli dei vogliono distruggere Pino Aprile : Elogio dell’imbecille. Pino Aprile : Terroni. Tutto quello che è stato fatto perché gli italiani del Sud diventassero «meridionali» Francesco Piccolo : Momenti di trascurabile felicità
°°°° LETTI 2010 °°°° Marie-Sabine Roger : Una testa selvatica (un’inno d’amore ai libri e al potere della lettura) Gimenez Bartlett Alicia:Vita sentimentale di un camionista Le mille e una notte Nicolò Ammaniti : Io e te Fred Vargas:I tre evangelisti Terry Pratchett:Il tristo mietitore Ian Sanson: Due uomini e un furgone (per non parlar di libri) Raymond Carver: Principianti Ian Sanson: Che cosa è successo a Mr Dixon? Erri De Luca : Penultime notizie circa Ieshu/Gesù Lois Lowry: The Giver. Il donatore William Nicholson: Il ritorno del Cantore. Il vento di fuoco. Alice Sebold: La quasi luna Edward De Bono : Il pensiero laterale Claude Ansgari: Piuma. Lettera ad un gatto scomparso Alice Sebold: Amabili resti Jane Austen: L’abbazia di Northanger Randy Pausch: L’ultima lezione. La vita spiegata da un uomo che muore. Grand Marcia: La principessa che credeva nella favole. Come liberarsi del proprio principe azzurro. Deeny Leander : Gli incubi di Hazel. OSHO : I misteri della vita
**** 2009 ****
FABIO VOLO : Il tempo che vorrei DANIEL GOLEMAN : La natura dell’intelligenza emotiva TERRY PRATCHETT: Il prodigioso Maurice e i suoi geniali roditori CORMAN MCCARTHY : Non è un paese per vecchi NICCOLO’ AMMANITI: Che la festa cominci KATAYAMA KYOICHI: Gridare amore dal centro del mondo NEIL GAIMAN : Cimitero senza lapidi e altre storie nere NEIL GAIMAN : Stardust TERRY PRATCHETT : Maledette piramidi GIORGIO FALETTI : Io uccido DIANE SETTERFIELD : La tredicesima storia NEIL GAIMAN : Coraline SWARUP VIKAS : Le dodici domande MAX TUCKER: Spero che servano birra all’inferno MARAI SANDOR : Le braci JACK WILLIAMSON : Il ritorno degli umanoidi VIRGINIA WOOLF : Mrs Dalloway VICKY MYRON: Io e Dewey REGINA HENSCHEID : Memorie di un gatto CECILIA DART-THORNTON : La ragazza della torre - The Bitterbynde vol. b]IAN SAN SANSON : Il caso dei libri scomparsi KATHLEEN MCGOWAN:Il vangelo di Maria Maddalena ROBERTO CAPRIO: Felicità metodi e pratiche FREDERIC LASAYGUES: Nella tua pelle
HO VISTO
troppo poco per il tempo che è trascorso.
STO ASCOLTANDO
SUBSONICA-ESTRA-MOTONNECTION-OTTO OHO OHM-SAVAGE GARDEN-LINKIN PARK-THE RASMUS-SHANDON-MICHAEL BUBLE-NEGRAMARO-MERCANTI DI LIQUORE-LE MANI-HIM-ECS-HIDEA-GIORGIO BARBAROTTA-UVERWORLD-SNOW PATROL-CANADIANS-CINEMAVOLTA-BAUSTELLE-ONE REPUBLIC-AMOR FOU-EDWOOD-L.EGO-UFFICIO SINISTRI-COLDTURKEY-SIKITIKIS-MOKA-THE HORMONAUTS-COLDPLAY-FABRI FIBRA-MEG-RADIOHEAD-U2-VERSIONE ALTERNATIVA-LINEA 77-CAPAREZZA-61 CIGNI-MORE THAN MURDER-IL GENIO-MARTA SUI TUBI- MASSIMO DANIELI SOULSHIFT- FRATELLI SBERLICCHIO- PICCOLA BOTTEGA BALTAZAR - THE KILLERS - CREED- DEASONIKA- FRANZ FERDINAND- JOHN LEGEND - LACUNA COIL - NICKELBACK - DENTE - OFFLAGADISCOPAX - PORCUPINE TREE - LE LUCI DELLA CENTRALE ELETTRICA - PAOLO BENVEGNU’ - I MINISTRI - STAIND - YIRUMA -
ABBIGLIAMENTO del GIORNO
Abbigliamento sempre comodo...ma molto comodo...senefregarega della moda
ORA VORREI TANTO...
STO STUDIANDO...
niente di interessante!!!
OGGI IL MIO UMORE E'...
Spumeggiante
ORA VORREI TANTO...
ORA VORREI TANTO...
ORA VORREI TANTO...
PARANOIE
1) quando le uniche risposte ai tuoi sms sono gli addebiti...
MERAVIGLIE
1) Sentire che per qualcuno tu conti davvero 2) Scoprire dopo molta solitudine che anche per te esiste qualcuno al mondo in grado di renderti felice... 3) ... l'instabilità del caso ... sapere che vivere nn è una teoria matematica e in ogni attimo tutto può essere rivoluzionato anche da una semplice frase... 4) il godere delle piccole cose... un prato verde...il calore del sole ke batte sulle coperte la domenica mattina...o una femmina di capriolo nella nebbia bassa di un'alba in montagna...
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Sunday, August 17, 2008 - ore 11:58
The Highwayman
(categoria: " Vita Quotidiana ")
The highwayman è uno dei poemi più famosi di Alfred Noyes (1880-1958).
E’ intenso ed emozionante.
Nel lontano ottobre/novembre 2003 in una delle indimenticabili serate a casa di Luca a fargli ripetizione ed a cazzeggiare nell’intervallo mi fece ascoltare The Book of Secrets di Loreena McKennitt
Fu amore al primo ascolto.
E ritrovai quel poema.
Buon ascolto....Sono 10 minuti di un’intensa passione.
PART ONE
I
THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding— Riding—riding— The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
II
He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin; They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh! And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, His pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
III
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard, And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred; He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord’s daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
IV
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked; His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay, But he loved the landlord’s daughter, The landlord’s red-lipped daughter, Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
V
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight, I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
VI
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair i’ the casement! His face burnt like a brand As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!) Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.
PART TWO
I
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon; And out o’ the tawny sunset, before the rise o’ the moon, When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching— Marching—marching— King George’s men came matching, up to the old inn-door.
II
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead, But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed; Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
III
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest; They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast! "Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say— Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight; I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
IV
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
V
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest! Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast, She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again; For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love’s refrain .
VI
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear; Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding, Riding, riding! The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!
VII
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light! Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
VIII
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own red blood! Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear How Bess, the landlord’s daughter, The landlord’s black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
IX
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high! Blood-red were his spurs i’ the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat, When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
* * * * * *
X
And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, A highwayman comes riding— Riding—riding— A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
XI
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard; He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred; He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord’s daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
