Wikibooks, manuali e libri di testo liberi.
Stiamo sviluppando e distribuendo libri di testo, manuali e altri testi educativi, a contenuto aperto rilasciato con licenza CC-By-SA , che anche tu puoi modificare. Vuoi consultare i libri di Wikibooks? Vuoi contribuire allo sviluppo dei libri? Hai domande sul funzionamento di Wikibooks? Rivolgiti pure allo sportello informazioni! Tutti i libri in vetrina. Estratto da " https: Menu di navigazione Strumenti personali Accesso non effettuato discussioni contributi registrati entra. Namespace Pagina principale Discussione.
Add to Wish List. Book 3 of 4. Book 4 of 4. More About the Authors. Daniele Gasparri is a young Italian astrophysicist and bestseller author. He published 35 astronomy books in Italy. Now, some of his books have been translated in English and are available all over the world. From the pristine sky of the Atacama desert, where he lives, Daniele is continuously looking for the beauty of the Universe.
The marvelous colors, the smooth contrasts, the delicate shapes, the unimaginable distances They just need to be shared with the whole world. Ha collaborato dal al con la rivista di astronomia Coelum. Al suo attivo ha oltre articoli e alcune pubblicazioni su riviste internazionali divulgative e accademiche Sky and Telescope, Astronomy and Astrophysics.
La sua impresa pulisce i vetri dei palazzi di tutta Roma. Duecento metri di filo di acciaio reggono le nostre impalcature. Una vera ragnatela tecnologica. In Italia dicono che la speranza sia di questo colore. Io, con il verde, rifletto. Mentre strofinavo la cacca dei piccioni attaccata al vetro, lui mi ha chiesto: Ma lui aveva chiesto il mio nome. E ho ripetuto a voce alta il mio nome, parecchie volte.
Astronomia per tutti: volume 7 (Italian Edition) eBook: Daniele Gasparri, Eleonora Spisni: osuqopabah.tk: Kindle Store. Books; ›; Science & Math; ›; Astronomy & Space Science · Astronomia per tutti: volume 2 (Italian Edition) and millions of other books are available for Amazon.
Come se lo potessero sentire. Un semaforo rosso che ti fa lavorare, va bene. Dal rancore alla speranza. Non era questo che dovevo raccontarvi? But that was a long time ago. When one could find green not only in stoplights but also in the streets. On the table, the most beautiful tablecloth. My mom hugs me: His cleaning company washes the windows of buildings all over Rome. Two hundred meters of steel wire hold up our scaffoldings. A real technological web.
But from the other side of the street comes the voice of my buddy, who works at the same intersection. In Italy people say this is the color of hope. Green today, green tomorrow: This is how it happened: While I was scrubbing off pigeon shit stuck to the windshield, he asked me: I was going to come up with an easy name to avoid confusion—because mine is difficult to understand— but the green suddenly flashed and he drove away.
But he asked me my name. And I repeated my name several times, loudly. As if they could hear it. From resentment to hope. The transition is subtle. Pastore Passaro Maria C. Oxford University Press, She has conducted scholarly research on the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, and has lectured in several Universities in the US, and Europe.
Girolamo Savonarola Ferrara, 21 September —Firenze, 23 May was a Dominican friar and fiery preacher, a reformer, and martyr in Renaissance Florence. He is as famous for his prophecies of civic glory as he is for his support of the destruction of hedonistic art. He is as notable for his clashes with tyrannical rulers and corrupt clergy of his day as he is for his call for Chris- tian renewal, even reformation. After the overthrow of the Medici in , Savonarola was the sole leader of Florence, setting up a democratic republic--the best Florence ever had.
His chief enemies were the Duke of Milan and Pope Alexander VI, who issued many restrains against him, all of which were ignored. As a matter of fact, once the Medici had been driven out, Florence had no other master but Savonarola. He instituted an extreme puritanical campaign, enlisting the active help of Florentine youth. He disobeyed and further defied the Pope by preaching under a ban, highlighting his campaign for reform with proces- sions, and bonfires of the vanities.
The Pope excommunicated him in May , and threatened to place Florence under an interdict. The following year, Savonarola and two of his supporting friars were imprisoned. On May 23rd, , Church and civil authorities condemned, hanged, and burned them in the main square of Flor- ence. Only eight poems, of those attributed to him, are authentic, and they are in the main, laudi, in the tradition of the religious Tuscan-Umbrian laudes St. Francis, Iacopone of Todi etc. The three poems selected were written at different times.
It describes the corruption of the world at the time of the pontificate of Sixtus IV. It be- Book JIT Like Iacopone, Savonarola un- folds his composition through anaphoras: The refrain at the end of each stanza acts as a sort of antiphon, such as those present in songs to be performed in public. Jesus is the name that, like an incantation, brings comfort, sweetness to pain, and hope of salvation.
He has no compunction toward the Pope. In the face of all the scandals, he knows he is object of calumny by paid detractors and chooses the way of spiritual perfection. Non ti ven sdegno ancora Che quel lussurioso porco gode, E le toe alte lode Usurpa, [ha] assentatori e parasciti, E i toi di terra in terra son banditi? One denies you, another says that you dream. But I think that you delay, o supreme King, In order to punish them more for their great faults; Or it is perhaps near, and you are waiting for it, That Judgement day which will make Hell tremble.
Virtue will not return to us forever: You do not see the sneering mad one, How haughty he goes, and what a river of vices he is.
So that with great anger my heart is consumed? Look at that effeminate dancer and that bawd Dressed in purple, an impostor Whom people follow and the blind world adores! Rare and gentle is that soul Which acquires more by fraud and force,3 The one who despises Heaven with Christ And always thinks of plunging someone else to the bottom; The world honors him, Who has his books and pages filled with theft, And he who knows better the art of every misdeed.
The earth is so burdened with every vice, That it will never rid itself of its yoke. Its head, Rome, has fallen to the ground, Never to return to her mighty office. How you would grieve, Brutus, and you, Fabricius, If you have heard about this other great ruin. Gone are the pious and chaste times. Usury is now called philosophy, Every man turns his back to good deeds; Now there is no one who ever goes on the right path; What courage still remains to me turns to ice. And yet one hope Does not yet allow me to depart, For I know that in the other life Well will it be seen which soul was noble And which one lifted its wings to a more beautiful style.
Flee from palaces and loggias And reveal your purposes only to a few, For to the whole world you will be an enemy. O gran pietade, o lacrime, o sospiri! Mostratime, vi prego, il pianto vostro! E qui scoperse da far pianger sassi. Yet it grieves me much that the dear Ancient time and its sweet danger5 Is now lost, and there does not seem to be any counsel That could restore it or would dare to. The passionate ancient voice No longer recognizes either Greeks or Romans; The light of those early years Has returned to Heaven with the Queen6 And toward us, alas, it does not bow anymore.
Where are, o me, the gems and fine diamonds? O great pity, o tears, o sighs! Where are the white stoles and the sweet songs? Where are by now the halos and the saintly eyes, The golden bonds and white horses, Three, four, and five excellencies,8 And the great wings, the eagle, and the lion? Scarcely is the coal found9 In the burning ink! Show me your tears, I beg of you! And She, who never seems to temper her eyes, With her head bent down and her bashful soul Took my hand and to her poor Cave brought me weeping; And there she said to me: I did not see hyacinths or flint stones.
Not even a world of glass. Povra va con le membra discoperte, I capei sparsi e rotte le girlande; Ape non trova, ma a le antique giande Avidamente, lasso! Altri non pono e altri non intende. Qual arrogante rompe vostra pace? Tu piangi e taci, e questo meglio parme. Where are your swords? Why does wicked Nero not rise, I said, The earth, the air, and the sky Ask revenge for his just blood: I see the milk burned up, And the heart torn into a thousand pieces, Out of her humble first godly appearance. Poor she goes with her limbs uncovered,11 Scattered her hair and her garlands broken; She does not find a bee, but to the ancient acorns Greedy, alas, she returns.
Scorpion stings her and the snake makes her turn away, And the locusts grasp the root; And so goes all over the earth The crowned one, and her blessed hands, Cursed by dogs, Who go swindling sabbaths and calends; While some cannot help, and others do not understand. Weep now, O twenty four, white haired ones,12 Four animals and seven blessed trumpets, Now weep, you my zealous stable-hand, Weep, bloody pilgrim waters;13 O lively stones, most high and divine, Now let every planet and every star weep.
If the news has reached up Above, where each one of you lives content, I firmly believe if one is allowed to say it That you suffer greatly from so much devastation: Laid waste is the temple and so is the chaste palace. What violence has put you out of the kingdom? Who is the arrogant who breaks your peace? That you weep in silence seems better to me. E tu sei in croce esteso, Per salvar me tapino.
A te fui sempre ingrato E mai non fui fervente, E tu per me impiagato Sei stato crudelmente. Do not take on any enterprise; If you will not be understood, It is better perhaps; rest content with the quia. O great bounty,15 Sweet mercy, Happy is he who joins himself with you! O how often have been offended By the soul and the wretched heart! And you are stretched on the Cross To save miserable me. O great bounty, Sweet mercy, Happy is he who joins himself with you! Jesus, what power has impelled Your immense goodness! What love has made you Suffer such o cruelty?
To you was I always ungrateful, And never was I fervent: And you have cruelly Been wounded for me. Jesus, make me die Of your living love; Jesus, make me languish With you, true Lord. O great bounty, Sweet mercy, Happy is he who gains himself with you! O Cross, make room for me, And take my limbs, For you light up with your holy fire My heart and soul. Inflame my heart so With your divine love That it may burn within So much as to appear like a seraph.
And may I always dwell there In glory there where he has gone. Savonarola presents a world whose values are turned upside down. Le traduzioni sono comparse sulla rivista El Ghibli - e su varie riviste online e cartacee. Ha vinto diversi importanti premi letterari australiani, tra cui il Grace Leven Poetry Prize due volte: He is as deft and resourceful a craftsman as exists, and his poems move with a clarity and ease I find unique.
It is without doubt the most physically striking collection of poems and photographs ever published in Australia7. The more I think about the muse, the more real it becomes. While others would be quick to jump into this mantle, he has really taken his time to accept it. Un momento apicale di questo trionfo si colloca nel , anno in cui Robert Adamson ha ricevuto il Patrick White Award. Al con- ferimento del premio, Mr. Robert Adamson is a deserving recipient of the Patrick White Award, having been at the heart of Australian literature as an acclaimed poet, successful editor and publisher in a career spanning over 40 years.
What it costs a poet to dare such plain statement, the patience it requires, even in impatience, the dedication, the hard work, is part of the mystery of these poems and of the life that has been worked through to get them down. Ma i versi sono anche un frutto dei misteriosi giochi della vita che hanno condotto Adamson, per sentieri imprevisti, a riconoscere la propria vocazione poetica. Vita con i suoi singolari casi materiali ed eventi spirituali.
Vita che si fa parola, e poesia. Morning unfurls, I wake and shave. We hover all day on the surface of the stream, above a soft bottom, until moonlight falls again onto stark white bed-sheets. The shadow your hand casts resembles the mudlark, opening its wings, calling and rocking, perched in the pages of my book.
Il mattino si dispiega, mi sveglio e mi rado. Outside, the river slips by; an overhanging blackbutt branch inscribes the surface with a line across foaming run-off. At the Fork these summer thoughts are silted up and become obscure: In these parts, the lyrebird must carry its own cage on its back through swamps — I once believed this.
But yesterday the bird suffered a stroke. Vivo vicino le coste fangose, al riparo delle mangrovie: Qui soltanto il volo conta; prenditi una pausa e scaglia il tuo pensiero seguente sulla marea.
I wrapped a scarf around my headache and looked inside — an ebbing memory leaving with the tide. Crouched in a corner of the house, my cat borrows my voice — I talk to him through the night. The heater clicks, its pilot light blinks. I scribble a few lines, pass my fishing rod off as a lyre. Who needs this bitter tune? Its distorted chords lull me into numbness. I bend it over double and pluck. We strung a bow from the willow tree and used bamboo for arrows. The afternoon thrummed with locusts. Clouds at the end of the sky were alive with the thunder that shook the corrugated iron.
We were wet with sweat — it was a hundred degrees that day, Granny said, hot as blood Hades. Il radiatore fa click, la spia lampeggia. Scribacchio qualche verso, fingo che la canna da pesca sia una lira. Le sue corde deformi mi ninnano al torpore. La fletto in due e pizzico le corde. Il pomeriggio strideva di locuste. Nubi al margine del cielo erano vive del tuono che scosse la lamiera ondulata.
The sun spread a golden glow in the calm before the gathering storm as the first snake of the season came slithering out of the fowl yard, leaving us its red-checked skin. Eurydice and the Tawny Frogmouth7 On the low arch above our gate, he looks out through a fringe of feathers, hunting, then places one foot on black cast iron and ruffles his head.
His other foot is clenched in the night air, held out in an atmosphere of waiting — then unclenched. Those nights flying with you weighed no more or less than this. Le cinque poesie sono le prime della parte seconda p. What Bird is That? She has published two books of English verse translations from the work of Seicento women poets — Voice of a Virtuosa and Courtesan: Her contributions to past issues of Journal of Ital- ian Translation include: She has published essays of literary criticism in Critical Companion to J.
Facts on File, as well as short fiction in VIA: Voices in Italian Americana. Cast aside for nearly four centuries, Margherita Costa c. A prolific writer, she published during her lifetime two prose works, three plays, two narrative poems, a pageant in verse for knights on horseback as well as six volumes of poetry: She remained in Florence until , where she published most of her works including her first four books of poetry and her comedy, Li Buffoni , which lampoons court society.
The play is dedicated to the actor, Bernardino Ricci, whom she likely married and whose children she bore. Margherita returned to Rome in , in the company of a former bandit, both under the protection of Cardinal Francesco Barberini. In , a short stay in Turin at the court of Duchess Christina of Savoy was followed by a return to Rome that same year. In , she found herself on the move again, this time to Paris with a group of musicians. There she enjoyed the protection of the prime minister, Cardinal Jules Mazarin, who helped her publish several more works including her last two volumes of verse.
She traveled next to Venice in and then likely to Germany. In , she must have returned to Italy through Venice where she published her play, Gli amori della Luna, then to Rome. Margherita is last heard from in a letter dated , in which she solicits aid from the papal Chigi family, describing herself as a widow sup- porting two daughters. If still in Rome, she may have succumbed to the plague of , but the precise date and circumstances of her death are as yet undiscovered. She likewise demonstrates a facility with a variety of forms Book JIT In her use of the canzonetta, influenced by the works of Gabriello Chiabrera , she achieves a simple verse stro- phe to invite musical accompaniment and one that could be sung.
In one poem, she gives a blow-by-blow account of rape. In another, she advises women to protect themselves from violence by bestowing kisses whenever requested, recounting the murder of a woman by her lover for refusing to grant him a kiss. She is the first fe- male poet to employ humor as well as irony, her signature strength, to mock prevailing male attitudes which would confine women to the domestic sphere.
With sparkling wit, she exhorts her sex to ignore the double-standard and to take as many lovers as possible, repaying men in kind who play the field. Throughout her poetic works, autobiographical references paint a realistic picture of her personal struggles, and especially convey her disappointment in failing to win the literary recognition she so sought.
Comment on the translation The two sonnets selected for translation are taken from Lettere amorose [Venice: The quality of these two sonnets lies not in their content—as the suspicious male lover accusing his woman of betrayal had, by this time, be- come a literary convention—but in the musicality and the prosodic complexity with which they are composed. Within each sonnet, a cascade of assonance and secondary rhyme sounds acts as a musical descant, or counterpoint, to the end rhyme. This prosodic richness attests to the Baroque predilection for complex patterns of sound, and re- minds us that Margherita, a practiced virtuosa, would have brought her musically-trained ear to the composition of her written work.
In attempting the first translation of these poems into English, I was curious to see how much of her original soundscape I could reproduce. A few calques came quickly for the end rhyme of the quatrains: Likewise, only through slant rhyme did I manage to recreate the difficult word matches for the end rhyme in the tercets. Would I be foolhardy enough to try this translation strategy again? Translated by Joan E. The volume was reprinted nume- rous times in , , , , and in Venice by various publishers. Tullia, however, wrote either the proposal or the response sonnet, but not both, in her epistolary exchanges with her circle of admiring literati and noblemen.
A Bilingual Edition, edited and translated by Julia L. Centre for Reformation and Renaissance Studies, Scorgo a mio danno la mentita arsura, e tardi nel mio error erro e vaneggio. Nel tuo martire il mio martir pareggio. Nella tua sorte scorgo mia sventura. Fu solo dal tuo ardor il tuo sospetto. I realize your lovely splendor hides a cloud obscure. I see, to my demise, falsified fire; to error late, I err, delirious.
I rue your chides that spell my misadventure and curse, yet seek, my hurt that you comprise. Like this you treat me, so disloyally! Thus have you shorn away my wings to joy! Ought this to be my joy and my delight? Is my desire intended equally as my demise, brought on by my own heart? Her Defense You dream, bright soul—this does my plea [comprise: Within your harm, my own harm I assess.
Within your fear, my faith rests insecure. Your luckless fate spells but my misadventure. Alas, my ills too late I realize. From your ardor alone arose your doubt.
His father, like many southern Italian men, had to go to America to work in order to support his large family, to Brooklyn, NY and Bar- ranquilla, Colombia, two trips, one in the nineteenth century and one in the twentieth, leaving the first time when L. In at the end of WWI, and when he was only nine, L. In he started his studies at the University of Rome. By this time he had published several books of poetry, and a few books of prose, and had received numerous awards.
In some of the prose in this collection, which in Book JIT He was awarded a degree in engineering, but when Enrico Fermi asked him to be one of the young men who would usher in the atomic age, he chose to cast his lot with poets and painters. Il poeta non deve edificare, deve soltanto allineare. Assolutamente spoglio di pensieri, di idee, di filosofia. Seguiva la sua buona stella come un vagabondo. Il bambino e il vecchio trovavano sempre qualcosa che nessuno altro aveva mai portato e che avevano de- siderato per un anno intero. That intoxication his poetry made us feel when we were boys is gone, lost, and we have not found it in the poets who have been our closer relatives.
Perhaps poetry is an operation simpler than alchemy, algebra. The poet does not have to build, only to align. Govoni worked in plein air. During his vast pilgrimages he gathered in his sac all that the universe put before his eyes and his feet.
Absolutely devoid of thoughts, ideas, philosophies. He followed his lucky star like a vagabond. And is it not true in fact that the goods make the vendor. Govoni charmed us with merchandise sold at bargain prices in a suburban shack. The child and the old man always found some- thing no one else had ever carried and that all had wanted for an entire year.
They had waited, thinking, Mr. Govoni is sure to come with his stand. Baroque is an irritant to classic patience, a doubt of the Olympian, a bolt in the empyrean of stasis. Ecstasy then, fever and paradox of the infinitesimal, of the fleet- ing, of the indivisible, mathematics of remainders, of inflections, of cusps, Alexandrian disgust of the peaceful Euclidean lethargy. Cavalieri, Pascal, Newton, Leibniz. Don Chisciotte e Teotocopuli. I paesaggi, spelonche, romitaggi. Dubuffet e tutti I tragici. Rompere la compattezza, trovare una falla nel lingotto, un fossile dentro il macigno, concepire il calcestruzzo, da Freyssinet a Niemayer.
Sognare una memoria ininterrotta nel cuore dei popoli e nella stessa natura. I meridionali contano i giorni che mancano alla fuga. Quando torna, il figliuol prodigo, consiglia al fratello di fuggire anche lui. La scelta di un mestiere, di un amico, una moglie. I figli Book JIT Don Quixote and Teotocopl. Land- scapes, spelunks, hermitages. Naples, Toledo, Istambul, Hartung. To reduce the universe to a congregation of atoms, the line to an assembly of points. To dream an uninterrupted memory in the hearts of peoples and in nature itself.
In the Bible or in Tragedy or in the large beds of the tribe. Our civilization of very old men has exacted a dear price for even the smallest disobedience. In the South there was a lack of love, a ray of hope, an escape route from family troubles. Southerners count the days left to flee. Grow up to run away from home, far from their towns, marry while still children, die in wars because of their rebellion to the power of the fathers. When the prodigal son returns, he advises his brother to leave as he did. A blind man who sold pigs called his adult sons to him and asked them to stand still in the open doorway while he slapped them one after the other.
Boys and their pals disappeared from their houses for two or three months and survived moving at night from one dovecote to the next or living in the depths of caves. They go over balconies, gates and hedges to breathe an air different from the fetid family air.
There is no passion or vocation that is not thwarted. The choice of a profession, a friend, a wife. Al padre spetta la testa e i figli rosicano la coda del castrato. Accade sempre al Pallonetto, ai Sassi, a Gannano. Le cronache sono piene di complotti, diserzioni minutamente elaborate dai giovani per liberarsi dalla tirannia famigliare. E chi non ha incontrato, sulle Serre o sulla Sila o nei deserti, i guaglioni, i pastorelli di nove o dieci anni comandare col fischio o con la mazza il gregge di pecore o di annecchie?
Ravvolti nella mantellina, il berretto sdruciato che copre le orecchie, i piedi nudi o stretti nelle bende e un piccolo strumento, una canna bucata, penzoloni sul petto. Ne fa dei discepoli o degli schiavetti lubrichi. Poche lune tra Natale e Pasqua, giusto il tempo per abbracciare una croce o farsi sgozzare.
Non siamo fuggiti, fummo cacciati via per amore dalle nostre dolci mura. Ho avuto maestri teneri, pericolosi. Siamo andati avanti a tentoni, animaletti col cuore in gola. La poesia e la vita del Sud sono piene dei ruggiti, dei lamenti, delle grida dei padri. Anche dei rutti e dei peti, come ho detto altrove. The Bible and Tragedy exalt the omnipo- tence of the old over the adult and adolescent. It has always happened at Pallonetto, Sassi, Gannano. A rare case of rebellion to the father, a trial of the father was held some time back in Matera: Newspapers are full of conspiracies and desertions the young have hatched in detail to free themselves from the tyranny of the family.
To the father, a daughter is an unclean mouth to feed, a son an arm for every need. And who has not run into boy-shepherds up on the mountains, on the Sila plateau, in the deserts, seen nine-or ten-year- olds take charge of a flock of sheep or goats with a whistle and a crook? Wearing a short cloak, a frayed hat covering their ears, feet bare or tightly wrapped in rags, and a small instrument, a cane with holes hanging on their chest.
At some point a man comes, from out of town, someone no one knows, and asks to take the children with him. They become apprentices or sex slaves. A few moons between Christmas and Easter, just enough time to embrace a cross or get his throat cut. We did not run away. We were chased away out of love from the walls we loved too much. When he came back, Father wanted a little affection from us, like an old dog.
Brought us sacs full of gold. But we had grown up running in packs, without respect for authority and experience. We went ahead groping, cubs with our hearts in our mouth. What a price we paid to learn how to live, how to get along with others. The poetry and the life of the South are full of the roars, the laments, the shouts of fathers. Even of their belches and farts, as I have said elsewhere.
In our houses is a chair with a hole and a large chamber pot always ready for the patriarchs as well as the children. I suoi inter- essi comprendono ogni genere di scrittura sperimentale e teoria e pratica della traduzione. Ha curato numerosi libri e antologie, tra cui: Ha pubblicato quindici volumi di versi, due raccolte di racconti brevi, e diversi saggi di critica. Truck, , Ligh Years: Fra i saggi segnaliamo: Appalachian Notes , Chockecherry Places. Essays from the High Plains , e Rivers and Birds In un saggio intitolato Alfresco.
Il viaggio, lo spostamento fisico, ma soprattutto i cambiamenti nel paesaggio, nella flora e nella fauna che caratteriz- zano ciascun angolo della vasta geografia americana, sono elementi importantissimi per la sua poesia. You hated the popular Sioux. The French knew, they called you Beaux Hommes. Low porcelain hills open to frenzy but generally cool Book JIT Voialtri che odiavate i Sioux che invece piacevano a tutti. I francesi lo sapevano, vi chiamavano Beaux Hommes.
Su basse colline di porcellana disposte alla frenesia ma solitamente tranquille Book JIT O O birds before your minds took over. O O eager looks through cold clear water and priceless navy bodies creased and figured from sleeping on the rope. Roy took a ride on a chrome hay wagon.
The larger of the two was an aspiring building, vacant and inspiring above the poonta poonta poonta of the gypsum works we saw where we stopped to sell the rubies. Inside was a tight yellow room with well-worn flimsy white trim and muffled gold curtains shattered about knee-level, a row Book JIT Oh oh uccelli prima che col pensiero prendeste il sopravvento. Oh oh sguardi smaniosi attraverso acque fredde e chiare e impagabili corpi da marina allisciati e sagomati dal dormire sui fili.
Roy ha fatto un giro su un carro da fieno cromato. I pour a whiskey and stand in the far one inhaling salt air and half listening to the high thin whine of shellfish feeding close around the reef at sundown. A tuba-faced man gets out of a dark convertible and limps toward the door in a slight hurry, pink dacron shirt steaming under a blue Muslim smoking jacket like an orchid.
Mr Bertoni — Mr Khan. TV light looks weird through igloo walls and the cord disappearing off across the ice looks even stranger, X bent over the hotplate melting down the rubies, dictating lurid memos for the Hong Kong plan: And meantime off Gibraltar hundreds of swollen cellos just waiting for a man of vision and friends Book JIT Il signor Bertoni — il signor Khan.
E intanto al largo di Gibilterra centinaia di violoncelli gonfi in attesa di un uomo geniale e qualche amico Book JIT Then that entirely different time in the North outside a tavern with spaceheaters wired into the dash of the pickup parked next door. Mango trees unwinding, Z bent over the barbecue melting down the blubber. The lava is hot. Although we share a minimal common ground I absorb his polka tastes in strategy and music while he picks up my preference in views, cheap shrimp and weather, long before and after dinner walks diamond-shaped from cards or baseball, east, and up and over feathered Inca racing dogs to who.
Alberi di mango che si rilassano, Z piegato sul barbecue a sciogliere il grasso. Like frying potatoes near the solstice a big batch, the Main Course, silverdollars with onion flashed to chestnut ; Scotch, no rocks; and travelessness, the art of going nowhere for a month or two.