bestie rare- freaks


Nick-Cave

Nick Cave intervistato dal Guardian sul suo nuovo libro multimediale – è romanzo, spettacolo, audio-book… In arrivo anche in Italia – a MIlano il 22 ottobre.

Per chi vuole sentire la voce del grande crooner rispondere a domande su manie sessuali, rapporto padre-figlio, i misteri del mare di Brighton e la vendita di prodotti di bellezza porta a porta.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/audio/2009/sep/10/nick-cave-bunny-munro

The seedy world of Bunny Munro as created and told by the leader of the Bad Seeds.

http://wwwhttp://www.guardian.co.uk/books/video/2009/jul/13/nick-cave-death-bunny-

munro.thedeathofbunnymunro.com/videos.html

Nick Cave reading.

Annunci

margaret-pepper-001

I got odd looks, of course but I thought: “What the hell, you need a sense of humour in this business.” If you’re a transsexual you can’t stand in a corner and hope no one sees you. People stare at anything that’s interesting and transsexuals are interesting….

http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2009/apr/03/first-person-sex-change

 

 

 

 

 

It was the most beautiful tree I had ever seen. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Its blossom was high summer blossom, not the cold early spring blossom of so many trees and bushes that comes in March and means more snow and cold.

This was blue-sky white, heat-haze white, the white of the sheets that you bring in from the line in the garden dry after hardly any time because the air is so warm. It was the white of sun, the white that’s behind all the colours there are, it was open-mouthed white on open-mouthed white, swathes of sweet-smelling outheld white lifting and falling and nodding, saying the one word yes over and over, white spilling over itself.  It was a white that longed for bees, that wanted you inside it, dusted, pollen smudged; it was all the more beautiful for being so brief, so on the point of gone, about to be nudged off by the wind and the coming leaves. It was the white before green, and the green of this tree, I knew, would be even more beautiful that the white; I knew that if I were to see it in leaf I would smell and hear nothing but green. My whole head – never mind just my eyes – all my senses, my whole self from head to foot, would fill and change with the chlorophyll of it. I was changed already. Look at me. I knew, as I sat there blinking absurdly in the hall, holding my hand up in front of my eyes ad watching it moving as if it belonged to someone else, that I would never again in my whole life see or feel or taste anything as beautiful as the tree I’d finally seen.

It was the most beautiful tree I had ever seen. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Its blossom was high summer blossom, not the cold early spring blossom of so many trees and bushes that comes in March and means more snow and cold. This was blue-sky white, heat-haze white, the white of the sheets that you bring in from the line in the garden dry after hardly any time because the air is so warm. It was the white of sun, the white that’s behind all the colours there are, it was open-mouthed white on open-mouthed white, swathes of sweet-smelling outheld white lifting and falling and nodding, saying the one word yes over and over, white spilling over itself.  It was a white that longed for bees, that wanted you inside it, dusted, pollen smudged; it was all the more beautiful for being so brief, so on the point of gone, about to be nudged off by the wind and the coming leaves. It was the white before green, and the green of this tree, I knew, would be even more beautiful that the white; I knew that if I were to see it in leaf I would smell and hear nothing but green. My whole head – never mind just my eyes – all my senses, my whole self from head to foot, would fill and change with the chlorophyll of it. I was changed already. Look at me. I knew, as I sat there blinking absurdly in the hall, holding my hand up in front of my eyes ad watching it moving as if it belonged to someone else, that I would never again in my whole life see or feel or taste anything as beautiful as the tree I’d finally seen.

may ___  from The Whole Story and other stories, Ali Smith

girlmeetsboyHeavenly creatures
A long time ago, on the island of Crete, a girl called Iphis was raised as a boy to save her life. But then she fell in love – with another girl.

Ali Smith brings Ovid’s most joyful myth into the modern age.

From the publisher: “Girl Meets Boy” – It’s a story as old as time. But what happens when an old story meets a brand new set of circumstances?Ali Smith’s re-mix of Ovid’s most joyful metamorphosis is a story about the kind of fluidity that can’t be bottled and sold.It is about girls and boys, girls and girls, love and transformation, a story of puns and doubles, reversals and revelations.Funny and fresh, poetic and political, “Girl Meets Boy” is a myth of metamorphosis for the modern world.

Pubblicato nel 2007, questo romazo “metamorfico” esplora uno dei temi più cari alla scrittrice scozzese: come l’amore sia indifferente a genere, cliché culturali e, non ultime, aspettative pubbliche e private. Un inno alla libertà individuale che trae ispirazione dalla mitologia classica.

… una sera di novembre, che pioveva come in certi autunni, a Napoli, città stranamente vantata per i suoi cieli asciutti e lucenti, pioveva in modo fitto e interminabile, una sera di novembre, verso le dieci – tanto era tardi- saliva per quella scalinatella buia e deserta sotto la pioggia fastidiosa, saliva, senza troppo scomporsi, una figurina di donna che non si sarebbe potuta definire meglio, badando solo al suo modo di vestire, che come  “antiquata”, parola un po’ triste  già ai primi di quel diciannovesimo secolo; per noi, un po’ grave.


hiroshige

hiroshige

 La gonna, non ampia, era lunga, e mostrava di essere stata, in passato, di un bel verde bottiglia, adesso sbiadito. Il giubbetto e la mantelletta erano guarniti di una triplice fila di perline blu, e così la cuffia, ornata però di un veletto scuro che lasciava sfuggire qualche ricciolo dorato. Con la destra (il polso sottile usciva delicatamente da una manica a sbuffo) reggeva il manico di un ombrello dalla cupola sfrangiata e leggera come un tetto di paglia; un tetto solcato anche da due o tre strappetti (aperture sarebbe stat la parola) dai quali intravedevi ancora quel cielo d’acqua; mentre la sinistra mano porgeva a un’altra donna, ma tanto piccina da non arrivare alle sue ginocchia; o almeno una piccina vestita interamente da donna.

Il cardillo addolorato, Anna Maria Ortese

 

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