you started to read Fight Club.
Even if you, in fact, not law. It's not that you like the idea of \u200b\u200breading anything. You go out to throw up crazy quotes from famous authors or to learn by rote steps to effect the novels of worship. And 'that just can not do it. In your life, you made the author of true crime against literature springs, 3 / 4 a myriad of books, from 1984 in The House of Spirits. Technically, you give up even the end of Tales of Ordinary Madness. And those who finish, however, hard to remember. Type "The Unbearable Lightness of Being, "which only the title was a program and 17 years was cool, read Milan Kundera bought with the literature of 900 selected by The Republic. Behold, and remember that The Unbearable Lightness t'era liked. Remember the feeling, the feeling of reading took place, not the reading itself.
However, menate aside, you've started reading Fight Club Have you started reading it yesterday, on the train while returning from your weekend in Tuscany , following a successful attempt to escape from the oppressive heat of Milan. You were also held Subculture , a sociology book that you lent Amnesia about a year ago - for the welfare of your belongings, not prestatemeli ... EVER! - That you decided to take on trips because you love and sociology, not least because of the university at the time no one could trigger an attack of narcolepsy (always advisable when traveling on the most shitty trenitalia bolide) as Foucault and Bourdieu De .
But here there on the shelf of the Mid Melinda, just when you're desperate idea of \u200b\u200bhaving to face the return journey, after a weekend stuffed ambiguous attitudes of hyperglycemia, the artificial coolness of dinner at a restaurant with fish and white wine, films seen squatting, sun, sea, smoked cigarettes on the balcony, just as you are about to cry the idea of \u200b\u200bhaving on a regional travel again without air conditioning, that's eyed on the shelf And Fight Club 'was an indescribable surprise, especially since you knew that half of Melinda had that book, but nothing can explain the feeling of revelation that you've heard at that moment.
And so, by train, you read. You've read the first 70 pages Fight Club letters asking how you would read if I had not seen the film but, after all, you do not regret the idea of \u200b\u200bbringing mica held Edward Norton. You've read the first 70 pages, and we've stayed up this morning on the tram, passengers between rotting debilitated by the heat of dazed and yawning apathy, have you read it and grabbed some other page. Three or four pages. Maybe five. And you have suffered an epiphany. Can only be your daily ritual for the day: read Fight Club and go to work. To upload, for wicked, "to power your class hatred," but also to understand that, in fact, nothing that populates our days worth the anxiety that often reserve. And now it all seems, through the extremes of the novel, perfectly sensible and damn true. And 'the spirit of our generation, who grew up in the grip of consumerism and mass-induced generational aspirations, the Ikea furniture and fathers who have not done the university and this has made it essential that we graduate. Not to mention the "work in Microsoft," a pretty shitty job but the classic place to brag about with former classmates, the original curtain of our para-bourgeois mediocrity, brilliantly pitted by Palahniuk.
Row after row, increasing the feeling of a life that is consumed in a total absence of life. The construction of the periods is dry pressing, thin and overloaded at the same time, the choice of a surgical sharp prose, without slowing down, potentially explosive, which passes through the stream of consciousness and become torrential, neurotic and polished together. All dotted here and there, irreverent irony.
And here arise the desire to anarchy, both in the narrator as the player, that leaves from a swallow centripetal thrust unease, to everything, to 'A ll In social, where it is now clear that it is the belief of having something to lose, let it drain away our lives, as we made gentle bulging automata.
And here arise the desire to lawlessness, the tension in a subversion of the system, the devastating revolution that does not aspire to any order. So we finally eviscerated our thoughts, put in black and white even as we are ever going to do with such great virulence in the pages of our ego. Here are robbing our alibi, here is the reduction to the paradox, the need of being alive in comparison with the terminally ill.
Or rebel.
Or anarchy.
So today, smoking a cigarette in the morning break, you have reflected on anarchy. And you remembered all saccenza with which states, around 16 years, that anarchy was bullshit. But the point is that, 16 years, it is meaningless to speak of anarchy. The point is that in 16 years you do not understand a fucking rules and anarchy can be neither more nor less than an A scribbled in a diary, or a quaint excuse for beating to do their homework.
And here today, there on the balcony, to think of anarchy as a respectable result of globalized capitalism and reckless. Palahniuk takes all of these instances (and takes 14 years ago, when grasping was much less obvious today) translating in the sublimation of post-modernity, in the apocalyptic nihilism, in a total break with the system that has generated, in the extreme statement the so-called war of civilizations, the primary claim of the need: to belong.
"Maybe self-improvement is not the way. " Yeah, maybe it's a false myth. Every era has its own and this is ours: to study, work, buy the sofa, in fact, solve the problem of the couch and flat-blown glass with bubbles. Here, at least solve that. It matters little that our ego vanishes and tangled in a life unwanted and frankly undesirable.
cigarette ends and you close that anarchy can only be a mature choice, which is practiced by those old enough to see in front of him, with perfect awareness, 'futility of the marked route. Unlike
of communism, anarchy is not a utopia. Anarchy is perfectly feasible. Only that it is quite destructive. The direct consequence of individualism in the shadow of which we have lived in the last 250 years but, ultimately, the more free alternative.
Anarchy is perfectly feasible, it is quite destructive, is the total dissolution of ties with the so-called evolution, in the legitimate belief that evolution is nothing but the second face of imprisonment.
Then, during the weekend, you've also seen a movie.
You saw it Friday because you had lunch with your boss and the beautiful, refined, high CEO of your agency in pussy super-super-super-center in Milan. You've found it to have breakfast with them because they emerged from a meeting (NDA). During breakfast, while you crush a brioche with raisins, the CEO tells you that he saw a movie, The Lovely Bones and that is a strange movie. He wanted to know what you thought you and the boss, only that neither had seen. The wonder of who speaks and tells you it's scary, psychological and about a serial killer who kills the children. Your boss, clearly shaken, on the other hand, one who is afraid of lightning and found a "nice" Sherlock Holmes, will ever hold such a film?
In your brain, however, many bells chime, the result of growth-based thriller, science fiction and horror in your father was duly occupied, in the most sensitive stage of your brain development. Moreover, there is also half of your passion for the insane serial killer and aberrations of the human mind, in the shadow cone of the soul, for incomprehensible degeneration which destroys the shared barriers of culture and nature, with a ferocity that make us think that they are not human individuals, but of demons.
Avoid sharing items that match your interest in the minds diverted and the stories of profound deterioration that almost always accompany and give birth, and immediately associate the serial killer film Chikatilo in . Decide that you'll see the movie over the weekend with the Mid Melinda.
Good. Did you see him. What can I say?
"The Lovely Bones" could be quite a thriller. But Mr. a thriller. The Lovely Bones has the potential to mount on the restlessness of illustrious ancestors, playing with the shots, with time, with the expressiveness of Stanley Tucci, introducing us in the universe claustrophobic intimacy of a serial murderess. He could have let them live in despair with no way out of the family. He could make us hope in the investigation.
Or Lovely Bones could have been a good movie dream, at least for fans of the genre, showing off the best special effects and riding the most common blunders on the phantom afterlife.
Unfortunately, the film manages to be neither one nor the other, consistently playing at a surprising shift register, rather than impress and bewitch, bother, so rather than seeking to reconcile two almost antithetical models of spectators. Two hours, in which you have the constant feeling of wanting an evolution of events or, more simply, to find the inspiration that you had hit in the first 40 minutes of the film. But that inspiration will never return, the restlessness can never complete itself, taken from regular shifts with the feel-good visions and multi-color adolescent pierced. Peter Jackson looks like the poor cousin of Jonathan Demme, doped up to Copeland cyanescens.
Some good ideas, why not, but, as always happens when you try to please everyone you end up not pleasing anyone. Or, at least, you may not please those in a film - especially with such an issue - not only calls for a meatloaf, a badly put pourri poised on the pathos, suspended between drama and fantasy.
Roll out, finally, Susan Sarandon on a veil, or rather, the role of "grandmother", which appears in the film by mistake, a bad taste for irony, perhaps because in the set next door, in the studios of Dreamworks, turned the comedy "Meet my grandmother drunk" and decided to recycle the character.
That said, you greetings and you prepare the salad for dinner. On the other hand, today you left the office at about 20 to write an urgent, essential, press release on the pubic hair of Nelson Mandela. Did you hear the spirit of Tyler pawing at you, you thought the long week that para, proud and pitiless, on the way and could not get anyone to slap on the way back, to give you strength, you have repeated in the mind: -9 days to leave.
Regards,
MB
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