Patrie impure is a title of rugged beauty. There is the nobility of the "homelands" to begin. Which is indeed very different from the "homeland" fuzzy, that reminds us of the difficult journey towards a shared identity and shared the inevitable differences that remain between the ideas, the mental representations of each of us. And there are the sincerity and the roughness of that 'impure "because it is not never good to close your eyes: that these are our homelands Italian or bastardized bastard is just under the eyes of everyone. Provided you want them open and keep open. The truth is rough, uncomfortable, unclean in his sincerity is not bothering to take a purified form of bumps and designed not to cause disturbances in dormant soul. But recognizing that we live in the belly of homelands is impure but the necessary step to love them and want a change in cultural and civic life, the construction of a building shared and finally free.
A massive anthology of short stories "committed" is a big risk. Meanwhile, why, and then engaged the militants. And then in opposition to that hallway just as militant - and much easier to accept - which is the instrument through which ethical and aesthetic and applied the rule appecoronando. Because there is in fact a refusal to close his eyes and the courage to choose. In 2003, when the anthology is, society, politics, the Italian economy still seems to have reached that degree of decomposition to which we have now reached, but enough to make local and mind we must surrender to the reality that it was an illusion .
Another risk is that one runs into the sea of \u200b\u200bbloated libraries and flow of books, mostly useless, which surrounds the reader: invisibility. I confess that seven years ago, I realized not just in this book. Then a few weeks ago I returned the generosity of a Roman market stall. Strike me that title, so essential elegance of the cover of Mattotti Lorenzo (also inside, where two of the stories are comic, for his designs of course). What strikes me is the promise of the chorus of voices, the stories of more than forty different writers. The hiring of a program so difficult groped a portrait of contemporary Italy.
How often do with books I love this kind of attack in bulk, with the intention of reading when and how it happens.
Pigs is the second story in the book. Divided into two sharply. In the opening pages Antonio Moresco abandons the hardness without discounts dell'invettiva. With bitterness and even anger, never separated from the lucidity, he tells us that we still see an Italy now, at every moment of our days. Small and big business greed and the various rulers of the state machine. The servility that erode the civil sense (if we ever had). Ignorance, species is proud of himself, who informs the spiritual life. The erosion, the loss of the promises - not only in Italy, of course - the path of democracy that began more than two centuries ago and now seems destined to fade in the crystallization of its rituals (elections) emptied of any real substance.
The lament for times past belongs to every time, but not limited Moresco and not limited to nostalgic lament, which is quasi-human genetic and lay literature. Walt Whitman quotes when describing the United States of his time there would be enough to replace them Italy today to have a true picture of our reality. Yet Moresco goes beyond moralistic posing, spread across historical periods, and encourages us to grasp the core of this successful practice that is often sterile: the function of memory. E 'own memory, the most rare commodity as we look around him, to put the distinction between sterile and fertile. Memory, as it is in Whitman cited by Moresco, is the only tool in our critical thinking that is necessary and in any other higher-level, because it is through that we can make comparisons, distinctions, free and informed choices. If the invective of the moralist is resolved in the thought that everything goes wrong, however, that human nature is immutable, has been sterile. If, however, allows us and encourages us even if - or even better if we force with violence - to reflect on the times that we live on the differences and similarities with other, future prospects and those of history - in short, if it forces us to exercise critical function of memory - then he will have made sense. Then we can notice how the reduction to an eternal present of our history and our life was and is still the cardinal instrument of political power, media and culture of the last thirty years. If yesterday is no longer distinguishable from now indistinguishable but not because it removed, then it is possible the Orwellian endless repetition the promises and betrayals, the fungibility of opposites, the demonization of the critical function, the debasement and trivialization of the main instrument of thought, which is the word or its use in terrorist verbal constructs without real sense. The scapegoating of historical memory which was the refusal of a rancorous civil reconstruction removes our past and to reconstruct this prevents an understanding of and connection with the past thus allowing to conduct the national herd grazing chosen. And then the slaughter.
This Moresco, not surprisingly, it suggests, it shows, sometimes it screams, just through the memory. Telling himself that he remembers. The elegance of his writing has nothing to aseptic value, but is direct and stony, is rough and energetic. The clarity has none of the transparency of a fragile glass, but if ever a colorless diamond.
The second part of the story opens on the pig of the title. Real at first, then come even metaphorical ones.
Moresco expands the function of memory. Switch from personal to shared memory, identifies a moment in our history where the sStoring media information has its strongest roots. A seminal event for a show on TV of life and death for the creation of an imaginary in which opposites are fungible, this is total, the pain is reduced to a function circus, and the public (not only) in TV wetsuit audience blurred the faces of fans on television. A few years later, in the voluminous novel Dies Irae , Giuseppe Genna also present in this anthology with its own story, will long live in the well which had fallen as the small Alfredo Rampi of contemporary cultural divide.
Thus we see pigs of the genus Sus scrofa assembled on the edge of the pit, and subsequently replaced by different pigs, stationed in erect posture. Moresco 1981 and the event leaves the real to imagine what would happen if it is repeated today (ie in 2003). To show the run of the theater el'accalcarsi television - they are political matters or information or entertainment, or even the obligatory priest - around the fact striking once more chance to show off, to exploit and to surrender to reality television and necessity of the eternal present in which Italy has been transformed. To show them in their hamper relief efforts. To show us our reality of emotional parasites.
Then, with a final leap of the imagination, it translates into a pure imaginary Moresco, where the allegory, however, is completed and fulfilled, through the interpretation and representation of design reality. Let the child inside the well to speak with what is at the top (pretone the inevitable, the inevitable politicone) and what the bottom (a God that shows chthonic). To all of them urged him to come out well from the child asks why it should, "because here is more beautiful" is the answer, which has no further explanation. But the claims of notorious forgers apparently did not convince the child. Nature, in the form of an ant and a worm does not hide the fact and point out that there under the earth, is cold. Yet the child does not intend to go. Refuse to leave the womb of the earth, refuse to be born. It 's a conclusion apparently bitter and desperate. But should also shake. That child there under the earth, Italy is in the womb, and is alive. It 's a future that rejects the reality of a present under all civil expectation. It 's a future that tells us Moresco, is believed to be born with the rejection of this memory that has abdicated.
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