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struggling to live, it's only for people who might still need me

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About a journalism, and some television.

A cliché states: there must be rotten, if the perversion excites the spirits, and this interest is morbid people to crime and violence.
I think that things are not so. Not exactly.

The point, in my opinion, it's like he writes.

A century ago, it was André Gide. Take for example, "Memoirs of the Court of Assizes," republished by Sellerio. They tell of the cruelty of the province, in France: brutal gestures, and seemingly incomprehensible.

Also in the twentieth century, Truman Capote would be chronicler of the reasons that could have led to two American boys in the Deep South to make a killing and that it intended to spend a few days to a report, rising up to six years for a novel, "A Cold Blood, "which became his masterpiece.

And then, even if not of crime it was, there is the case of Hannah Arendt. Philosophers, historians. He followed the trial of Adolf Eichmann in Jerusalem. At trial, he saw a minister of Hitler, and even a criminale, bensì un omuncolo, obbediente agli ordini di un pazzo. Hannah Arendt ne trasse la "Banalità del Male".

E poi, per farsi un'idea della differenza tra il passato ed il presente, occorrerebbe pure rileggere le cronache e le interviste di Enzo Biagi, di Oriana Fallaci, dei grandi giornalisti che seppero raccontare l'Italia del dopoguerra.

La conoscenza del Male è indispensabile, quasi quanto la conoscenza del Bene. L'interesse è legittimo. Il punto, ripeto, è come se ne scrive. E non ci sono più, fatte salve delle rare eccezioni, i cronisti di un tempo: straordinari, o perché occasionalmente dediti alla cronaca e pronti a liberarsi d'ogni pregiudizio, o perché capaci di penetrate deeply into the human soul.

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TUTO VA

fired them and climb on the crane. It occupies the TV. A patron buys the factory and promises recovery. Others dismissed, another crane. But I've seen pictures. And patrons do not produce dozens. The wind blows very strongly to the crisis. Not to hear, just to cover well, and say that statute goes well, Madame la Marquise.

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WELL THE COUPLE PIU 'BELLA OF THE MEMBER OF ITALY

The most beautiful couple of Italy was dissolved in a sad goodbye.

The two had many years on the front pages of magazines. He, a man of success, made out of nowhere and landed in politics late in life, he drove a brand new party, returning to a political militants and the government of another old party.

you, blonde, beautiful in her youth, had contributed to the success of her husband with class and discretion.

attending the good society. Who has not seen their photos to the sea, or in their home country or living in Rome?

With Mary Angiolillo, Mario D'Urso, the table with Gianni Letta, Bruno Vespa.

Their best friends prefer to be kept secret, about the incident.

Who would have thought?

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, Anne Frank and the others. THE FACTS OF

A deputy League protested the reading passages "obscene" Diary of Anne Frank by a teacher in an elementary school in the North. To render strengthen their position, added that this diary is not in the programs of the Ministry!

The termination of the poor made me think that there is still a great need to read that diary, in our schools, and the need to read the other. More stories.

We know all of the U.S. and nothing in Africa, the Near East or Haiti.

's so that comes the fear of strangers. When schools teach you everything except the history of others.

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green shadow

dark forces as force-chains of medieval origin and do not ever do things that we want to do. And not being able to free ourselves from the whole constraint is

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ROSARNO

A Rosarno lived thousands of illegal immigrants. Men and women who had abandoned their land and who no longer had any rights, not social services, not for unemployment benefits, no retirement.
When landowners have held that the crisis of agriculture no longer make it to harvest the fruits of the earth, have stopped recruiting. The irregular
were found to hunger in their cardboard houses, in a abandoned warehouse, to wander the streets without a cent of a country that suddenly recognized them as subjects hostile, threatening.
Some say that behind the uprising Rosarno behind that kind of replay of the Executioner who spring Ciccio Franco, it is the work of the 'Ndrangheta, the mafia for a few days earlier he had launched another sign: the bomb before the Law Courts of Reggio Calabria.
The hypothesis could not be excluded a priori.
is not impossible to attempt a diversion, a strategy of blackmail. Those responsible might occur.
But the point is another.
There are two conflicting poverty in Italy: the South, never grew up, immature, and that of migrants fleeing from poverty more acute. A myth refuted
never read that terrorism had not taken root in the South, the presence of mafia organizations.
In other words: no politics, no subversion, no ideology.
Now, racism is not a simple attitude: it is the ideology of the supremacy of one race over another. And I do not think there is racism, nor in Rosario or elsewhere in Italy. But I also know that xenophobia, literally the fear of strangers, can be breeding grounds of the worst ideologies, from racism. And I know that taking place between Africa, Asia and Europe, is the largest migration in human history, and think that to oppose them with simple prohibitions is an illusion.
This revolt would lead us to a series of reflections. How
will combine the illegality of our South xenophobia that is before our eyes?
Since crime has also, though not exclusively, social origin, which will produce the results between the fatal intersection different crime?
What policies are needed to restore humanity to our city, economically impoverished by the crisis and - morally - from the fear?

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CALTAGIRONE, JAMES ALESSI is a story

Portrait of James Alessi

The staircase, lit candles, summer evenings.
Majolica shine with a thousand reflections.
Blue. Enamel. Yellow. The imperfection of the surface.
Caltagirone is an extraordinary place. In
Square, City Hall, and on one side, the Gallery Sturzo curious example of twentieth-century architecture.
Nearby, in a narrow street, on a tiny square, his shop.
I met him by chance, years later interview.
James Alessi tells me: "Want to see my collection of ceramics?". Nothing traditional
says.
Art.
I have a sinking heart.
I hate contemporary ceramics.
agree.
The appointment is for tomorrow.
Before a visit to Mary Attanasio. His house is on a hill. The terrace is breathtaking.
back in town. Periphery. A building of gray concrete.
Insert a narrow staircase.
"They have seen a few," says James.
Twenty or thirty persons.
I would be elsewhere.
opens the door.
"Sit." Turns the
lights, and guide me along a corridor. And the door opens onto a wood tiles, up an aviary of owls on a sea of \u200b\u200bdomes, cathedrals and mosques, and synagogues. The green and red. The colonnades. The statues, and are not carved, but shaped, one by one, from the hands of a craftsman of genius.
Now he is in retreat, and I take a step forward, and kneel down to see the chaos that seems to many continents, from a different point of view.
The light is not enough. He opens the shutters, and the spring sun shines through and is refracted on the surface round the city of ceramics.
may be Venice or Constantinople, Sophia.
I watch those inventions, which are what they represent and more, and try to bring them to the status of objects.
An owl watches me with his hands in his pockets, his stomach protruding dignity.
There is something familiar in that look, in that posture. And
intuzione comes suddenly, and so strong, silent confirmation that I ask to James.
"Is that him?".
Leonardo Sciascia. In that animal
mythological, in that silence you see, feel, there is much more than a mere representation. Just as in some forms, apparently abstruse. And in fact full of other symmetries, unthinkable.
In what was a kitchen and is now a sort of lesser exposure, there are two men in uniform, posing in a frankly obscene. And is uniformly high.
James Alessi is a man split into two twins.
is the knowledge of tradition, and it is almost impossible to distinguish its vessels and its jars and its figures from the eighteenth century baroque which was Caltagirone furnace. Same spider, same vitrification, the same softness of the shapes and colors. Delicate proportions. Pastels and impeccable cooking.
And now, surprise. The sound of music never before heard. The breaking of the injury on a rock. James Alessi is also a great contemporary author. Caltagirone would like to bring her to Venice, Venice and criticizes his provincialism.
I know little about contemporary art, very little. And perhaps this it must be my initial suspicion.
I love history and mysteries.
Yet, in those forms, there is the same force of the volcano who rebuilt the city after the earthquake of 1693. The fire, which baked the pottery is the same.
James Alessi holed up in his laboratory, from time to time, and those thousands of experiments, seen by very few, are the fruit of his joints.
is intellectual, James Alessi. He knows the world and its contradictions.
I had to finish in Caltagirone, to find a garage, and a craftsman in a time when nobody knows anything about what he does.

In Library has just arrived "James Alessi and ceramics. A long tradition for the future, "a precious book full of photographs of the author of the masterpieces of Caltagirone. His work is told from the writings of sixteen among archaeologists, artists, critics, journalists, managers, writers, scholars (Silvana Editoriale, 288 pages, 52 €).

my story.

three times, and yet ...

It happened three times and probably still would have happened in the city of the mountain that had a name he knew and was air instead of sulfur, lime and clay dough soft and rich. The first time
Caltagirone was reborn from mud that suddenly had the edict had come the other side of that sea which had accepted the island at the center and the center was still on the mountain.
Men with the cross and the sword was told that all the worshipers of Satan who lived in San Giuliano, and all those descended from worshipers, by line of father or mother, had to leave, and leave the earth what the earth only it was, and therefore his clothes, gold and parchment fell to the bottom of a well that was quickly sealed.
The houses were sold and the few furnishings ignited the fires of the devotions of others.
The men told the women to take a child only, and move towards the source of the sun, to Germany. As for them, they would take their other son, or any other, e avrebbero inseguito il sole fino alla sua morte, sul mare, verso il Garbo.
Se la donna e il figlio fossero morti, o fossero stati depredati, e resi schiavi e venduti, allora vi era ancora la speranza che loro, gli uomini, insieme agli altri figli, si salvassero, all'Impronunciabile piacendo.
Poiché le ricchezze dovevano esser lasciate alle loro spalle, essi conservarono quel poco d'oro che poteva esser dissimulato, tra le pieghe dei loro corpi, e si cucirono addosso dei cilindri di rame con le lettere e le frasi che un giorno li avrebbero condotti alla prima terra perduta. Una notte, ad uno, tra di loro, venne in sogno un vulcano, e la lava infuocata che ne fuoriusciva si stendeva sugli uomini, li ricopriva, e quando gli uomini crawled under the blanket of cold, now freed, to leave their mark, so that everyone could look at it and have their memory and the past.
He was named Shmuel, who used the time he was allowed to remain in the city of the mountain with the clay to mold the faces of men and women, and the books of God and the Law. Then it was time for Pesach, walked down the paths along the valley, until Maroglio, and the bed of the river laid the stones of clay, which bore the inscriptions, and the vessels which copied the faces of Yoshua, Robina, Iosep, Salomon, Alba.
who had bathed in the waters, would have their voices heard to pronounce the names of all who had to be silent.
happened again, two centuries later.
In churches, built over the temples, shaking of the angry God broke the signs of wealth, the devotion which had overtaken and obscured the light.
Houses of Lords and the miserable were also crushed. On the evening of the ninth day of 1693 and to noon on the eleventh day, in Caltagirone, for Occhiolà, Noto, Modica, from the bowels of the globe there was a cry of death, and the anger subsided, two years later.
dull moan of the earth, were added the cries of mothers and fathers and children, the cries and sighs and murmurs grew, and who had to lose someone, it lost forever. When the revenge of the Unknown finally ceased, the city of the mountain was bare of things and souls, and we had to start over again, as had already happened after the expulsion of the Jews, and the loss of doctors, pharmacists, the workshops, manuals.
In a dream, a monk with a long white beard, was a volcano, and the fiery lava that flowed, cools monster in the form of a chalice, crucifix, and tabernacle. The priest shook himself, he set out in the cold foggy night in the winter and there where 'clay was abundant, his principles to shape it like a tree, and sun, and children.
who saw him the next morning, he described black and white wet powder, among hundreds of trees, and only, and children, which seemed alive and about to bear fruit, light and tears of happiness. The city of Mount
grew of new homes and everyday objects were made of clay, rather than gold and silver, and tin, and copper, and wood. The dishes were of terra cotta, and so the glasses, and pottery, and churches, devotion had rekindled around dust hardened by water and fire, and all seemed right that this is the case: quia pulvis example, in pulverem reverteris. The city
provident to the present, today, and that Lent lasted for centuries.
happened again, just before the second millennium is close.
A low whistle heralded the flight of a griffin, and that grew to become whistle scream of Revelation, griffins and multiplied, to darken the sky and the earth began to tremble as the tales that the old soothsayer in the cracks of the surrounding walls are still intact.
eggs that griffins flung down their path, opens on the streets and houses, giving life to death, life and death.
The houses are made of fire and the roads were opened up in hell, and those mouths swallowing everything: the ruins, and men and animals.
danced without music.
The war that was young thief, is now put into the homes of fathers, plunder of misery. What had been converted from a God to another, and what had survived the wrath of the Most Merciful, was held up by man, this will end, that one will stand on a few stones.
None, this time, had more desire to rebuild homes and churches.
But it is said that he would return in a muffled hearing, or perhaps it was a blind man who had returned his sight, and that the person selected would raise an altar, said to be grateful for that miracle.
He walked the streets of the mountain and saw that he had not seen, and they were the children in the street, lifeless, or perhaps he felt that he had not heard, and they were the tears of their mothers.
seemed to be mad. He would have preferred to remain blind, or deaf.
In place of the altar, the man decided to raise a wall, where were the windows of his house and hide in the farthest room. He slept on straw escaped the fire, and the straw was still smelling of the mule that had held, and the dream was a volcano, and the fiery lava that flowed, had the sweet features of children and the serious ones of the mothers. Disheartened, the man decided he would withdraw back to its silence, to tell what he had
seen or heard.
In his hands, for generations, was the ability of the Shaper, and those thoughts, dreams and joyful and dark, patterned on the clay they collect at the source of each city's rebirth of the mountain, so that in future the man knew that the border was not to be exceeded already been exceeded, and the good was on this side, and not beyond that boundary, where there were only pain and death.

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Reread GUARESCHI

My Sky is crucial. In a time of scombiccherati schedules, fix everything. You can retrieve old films and documentaries precious record.
These days, I fished out the films on Peppone and Don Camillo, taken from the novels of John Guareschi. Everyone, from first to last film. The series lasted two decades
Film: Don Camillo by of '52 until Don Camillo and the youth of today of '72, in which Gaston Moschin Lionel Stander and just interpret the characters immortal dignity that had belonged with Fernandel and Gino Cervi.
For a couple of feet from my TV, an old collection of peeps Candido. Hardcover. Satire and cartoons to be missed. The history of Italy is reread even so, between Guareschi and his counterpart of the Communist Party, Fortinbras. But Guareschi's books to me are as important as the film that they were taken. Twentieth-century examples of good writing and unjustly forgotten. My friend Marco
Ferrazzoli wrote an essay, his second, on Guareschi, Don Camillo Not only , released in late 2008 for Man Free and read my first piece of advice for this year . I quote from an interview

de The Fund Marco Ferrazzoli:

Indro Montanelli was unequivocal: "The history of the twentieth century can be done without anyone else, but not without Guareschi. I confirm it, pointing out that Guareschi was not only a great writer, journalist, cartoonist and humorist, but also a great intellectual and Italian character. It is a central authority of our literature, a major political journalist and a rare example of human and intellectual coherence.
Already in the first half of the 900 Guareschi is a famous journalist of the Berthold. In 1943 he was deported to Nazi concentration camps and became a leading figure of the "white resistance." To return founded and directs the candidate, the largest weekly political satire of the postwar period. In '46 supports the institutional monarchy in the referendum. Makes an essential contribution to the Democratic victory in the elections of 1948 with the famous poster "urn God sees you, not Stalin" and "Mamma votagli against it for me." Becomes an important opinion-leaders, one of the fiercest scourge of the party and the main anti-Communist polemicist. In '53 ends up in jail for defamation of Einaudi and De Gasperi.
Even this cursory reading of his biography shows how the author of Don Camillo was one of the most important intellectuals of 900 Italian civilians. Of course, there are also small book in the world and many others sold and translated into millions of copies, inspired film still of great audience. But perhaps this success is a paradoxical misunderstanding: the sweetening of the historical and cultural Guareschi and the undervaluation of his moral stature. A risk that he runs is because of the "enemies" anxious to minimize its importance, both to certain "friends" that seem to confirm the weak image.
Guareschi is instead a central authority of our literature, a major political journalist and a rare example of human and intellectual coherence.

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