A un passo dalle stelle di Daniela Palumbo è un libro che emoziona, affascina accompagna. I protagonisti percorrono un cammino, quello della via Francigena, come moderni pellegrini. Giorgia, Matteo e Alessio, due ragazzi e messaggero poetico e illuminante, crescono nella storia e sbocciano come rose tra fiori di campo regalandoci una narrazione che rimane dentro di noi. Da leggere!
Cone or not cone that’s the question. Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the insults of ointment, hydrogen peroxide, and the arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against Umi and fight to scatter her. Border and Bard share the same consonants. We are both English and Poets. Maybe he went to the aesthetic surgeon too instead of to the vet like me.
And yes! As far as my ear bitten by a pittbull is concerned Umi is doing “much ado for nothing”. And I, the Border from Stradford-upon-Adige, have enough of it. If I don’t pay attention the hole in the ear could open? Ok I will wear an earring! Like Will or Drake the Pirate did, or if you prefer like the sailors who survived to Cape Horn, where the ocean fight! I rounded Cape-of-Good-Hope-they-leave-me-in-peace and it do the same!
And, as my life was a sheakspearean tragedy there is also the scratching prohibition. Umi issued an edict: “any dog (as if we were a lot! ) scratching itself will be punished with a shout” that will pierce the eardrums but save the ear pavilion. When don’t wear the collar I must clean myself and being a Border I clean my hair. I don’t stink and then the “family jewels” must be well kept. No great strategist would ever won a battle if the artillery wasn’t properly oiled and the cannon-balls well polished.
Switching from tragedy to comedy like it happened at Will’s Globe, Umi and I met a man in the street who asked if I’m a male (what a question!). He has a little dog at leash, wearing a black&pink coat, I didn’t see at all, let’s figure to guess what it was!
He stood and gesticulate, he talked nonsense and Umi nodded patiently while I’m thrilling unpatiently…. and she kept on smiling doltish. Believe me, that man rounded Cape Horn twice but head down and he had even a screw loose.
I’m asking myself: should we be nice with every mad we meet? Under that pink coat he has a wheeled plastic duck , I tell you!
Let’s go Milady, please… For heaven’s sake, Umi, put it off!
In Italiano: To be or not to be that’s the question
Rinnovo della carta d’identità cartacea, ufficio anagrafe, stamattina.
Nome, cognome, stato civile, altezza… professione.
-Professione? – mi chiede l’impiegata, ci penso: se dicessi casalinga i figli mi denuncerebbero per aver dichiarato il falso, sono sicura.
“Umi” non lo propongo neanche: “Lettrice? Narratrice di storie?” provo e la donna mi guarda senza capire. Tento di nuovo: “Scri…” L’impiegata mi incoraggia con lo sguardo, Bryce si gratta, le persone in coda rumoreggiano.
Inghiotto saliva e dichiaro: “Scrittrice.”
A Manzoni scappa un lacrimuccia (non succedeva da secoli), Calvino si rivolta nella tomba, Eco ride, ma ride così forte che disturba tutti.
La donna annuisce e con pochi tocchi di tastiera compila e stampa il documento.
In fondo dopo migliaia di ore di lettura, centinaia di ore di praticantato con gli studenti, parecchi articoli come ghostwriter di un cane, venti romanzi nel cassetto e otto pubblicati con case editrici specializzate e nazionali (ben recensiti e venduti), con beneficio d’inventario e senza un attento esame di coscienza, nella categoria “Scrittori” potrei rientrare.
E poi, tutto sommato… chi la legge la professione sulla carta d’identità?
ilgiovanebrik 