He wrote that things happen like questions, and he also wrote that Piedmontese who dealt with the cultural formation of those who were twenty in the appropriate years. The first thing that happened I will tell you later. The second is an interview that Piedmontese residents gave there a month ago.
To Raffaella De Santis who interviewed him walking around the elephant in the room, saying “autofiction,” trying not to sound obsessive, “how to rule,” Alessandro Baricco, realizing that what everyone wants to know is “In short, he had cancer, think of writing About him or what”, he gave this answer here: “Carrier is a great writer, I admire him very much, I envy him for the role of the phrase, the liveliness, but I admit that sometimes while reading his books I am ashamed of him.”
When I was twenty, which I like to have a vocabulary similar to that of Young Holden’s first translation, my reaction to this sentence sums it up in one adjective: solid.
I’ve been thinking about it for weeks. One day I was talking to an editor about it and I said I was split. age to say that”todo lo que uno escribe es autobiográficoI don’t say ‘I’ only those who say ‘I’, The Ugly Duckling was autobiographical because Andersen put himself in Dickens’ house and after a while no one could stand it, and that was before psychoanalysts existed and tackled the refusal to write fairy tales where she wasn’t An unwanted guest like a true mythical madman, I was even a misunderstood swan.
Life to say it in a nutshell, Borges also says “Once upon a time there was a king who had three children” is autobiographical, and let me Borges never read it, it is the same because Guccini quoted it. In the form of songs, a sentimental autobiography of a nation, and yet one now comes and says that one should be ashamed of my “I” and I fear it may not be all wrong.
And the publisher said to me: Yes, well, and what about Francesco Piccolo? I replied: Yes, well, so what about me
The third thing that was actually a question is Announcing the Nobel Prize for Literature Annie Ernault. He replied that life, as promised to the inhabitants of Piedmont, would come true. The answer was: I.
There were, on Instagram and in the papers, more photos with Ernaux than there were with today’s dead When Ennio Morricone was dead today. Erno often comes to Italy, and when he comes to Italy he meets writers, so all writers, even those who review a book who do so by influencing the impersonal, can finally speak of me, show the picture with me, and have me in the center of attention. Le Noble, c’est moi.
They explained to us that the word “I” is derived from social networks, in fact no, it is derived from the fragile and fragmented identity of the contemporary era, in fact no, it is derived from the end of parties, politics, society, rava and bean. . None – at least none of those I’ve read, whether they also write “me”, or those who think they’re talking for the magazines they write for and then review novels with lunar phrases like “it seems to us that” – nothing he said: That’s because it’s easier .
I tell you as the protagonist in this performance: I pay my bills for a lifetime by writing ‘I’. it is easier. Which is not to say that it is not an interesting complex, painfully tiring – you need to decide whether it is for the writer or for the reader. But it’s easier. It’s not something we can discuss, really, I know more than you, I’ve got hours of flying in the controls of an “I” that won’t build up in your life, believe me: It’s pretty obvious how the truth of a blue tap comes out of cold water.
Write about my miscarriages or my failures or the kids who threw me into a trash can in high school or the billionaire suing me by making me spend Christmas with a locked bank account or driving me by my parents or the kid who kissed me before I went to see back to the future whatever my life and megalomaniac Which struck me in making it a literary work, is easier than writing the Iliad, or Gone with the Wind, or Crime and Punishment.
Once, commenting on some cultural debate against the classic novel, Nadia Terranova told me something that stuck in my mind as much as Bareco’s shame on Carrier’s behalf: “I don’t understand what they have against the classic novel, apart from the fact that it’s hard to write.”
It is not just a matter of changing names, which is now practically the only thing that distinguishes those who do not pretend to tell about themselves. If I talk about my cancer, my mysterious crisis, my problematic childhood, and the protagonist’s name change, this is not my autobiography. If she did this also in Modena, then, “This girl is clearly the protagonist of a fictional novel,” this girl with a wholly imaginary being, no one should allow themselves to think that “I” is “I.”
(And I am then always someone else, not only because we all read Rambo in high school, but because we all had diaries with a lock that took a literary stand on it knowing the lock would be broken by the hairpin family members and that secret, in secret diaries, didn’t There was nothing. Elias Canetti, who questioned the fact that his best works are the memoirs he told us about Pavez, was the only one who deludes himself that one always writes the diary for oneself. In any case for the public, being one’s self is a situation like everyone else ).
And yes, I know you’re thinking Dostoevsky was Raskolnikov, Homer was Achilles and Margaret Mitchell was Rhett (at least I hope: she wasn’t Rossella, oh my god). But those around them have taken the trouble to build a world, which is a bad job.
The first thing that happened, the first question, was a few months ago. Claudio Giunta has compiled a survey of those who make you laugh among Italians who write. When they involve me in these things, I always think it’s because they’ve come to an end and are terrified of not even having a woman and are now being lynched – but that wasn’t the question. Including myself, Giunta defined me as a “self-stressed biographer,” and so I’ve since wondered if that’s the phrase I’d want on my tombstone. And it seems clear to me that despite being the only Italian who doesn’t have a picture with Erno, Noble is the answer.
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