Uncategorized


Da R2 di Repubblica, lunedì 16 gennaio 2012
Andrea Tarquini

Fratello maiale, dovremmo rispettarti. Sei un animale intelligente e sensibile quasi come noi umani. Non lo dice un idealista vegetariano, bensì un autorevole studioso austriaco, il professor Johannes Baumgartner. I maiali, ha spiegato a Welt am Sonntag, hanno grandi facoltà cognitive, quasi come nessun’altra specie. Provano sentimenti ed emozioni come noi. Hanno il senso della competizione come il senso della famiglia, provano gelosia come paura. Grufolano nei modi più diversi, segnalando con suoni differenti gioia, gioco, stress o paura e dolore. Si adattano veloci ad ambienti diversi, e pensano persino in modo strategico, cosa quasi senza uguali nel regno animale: sanno trovare velocissimi il cibo anche in un labirinto. Hanno poi anche una capacità di comprensione matematica: valutano subito quanto è abbastanza e quanto è poco, cosa rarissima tra le bestie, nota Baumgartner. Invita a riflettere: li mangiamo ma dovremmo – se non sentirci cannibali – pensare a quanto ci sono simili e farli vivere in modo umano, non con l’allevamento in batteria. E smetterla di dire ‘porco’ o ‘maiale’ come insulto.

Quattro volte, bisogna imparare tutto di nuovo: si muore come uomo, come capretto, come albero e come carbone. Il regno minerale conclude le trasformazioni che partono da quello animale e umano del pastore che muore in silenzio nel suo letto con le capre a fargli compagnia. Nasce subito il capretto in una breve vita: ancora cucciolo resta indietro il primo giorno di uscita al pascolo con il gregge. Bela, chiama, nessuno lo sente. La notte si accuccia tra le radici di un altissimo abete. Cade la neve, passa il tempo. La linfa scorre nelle fibre. In primavera il taglio: uomini lo trasformano in palo della cuccagna e infine gli uomini del carbone lo portano via. Viene tagliato a pezzi, bruciato a lungo. Sacchi di carbone vengono distribuiti alle case del paesino: il fumo comincia a uscire dai camini e si disperde nell’aria.

Nacita e morte sono molto vicine, la morte trasforma in altro. Alla fine le molecole sono disperse nel cielo. Le quattro volte della vita: animale, umana, vegetale, minerale.

Il film fatto di immagini e dei suoni della natura di Michelanelo Frammartino è una riflessione filosofica che ha la lievità di una poesia antica.

A Montichiari (Bs) sabato 22 maggio si manifesta contro  Green Hill, l’ allevamemento di beagle per la vivisezione

I cani sono attualmente 2500 e vengono esportati in tutta Europa – i voli partono regolarmente dall’aeroporto di Montichiari ogni settimana. Questo non può continuare. Cambiare si può: la compagnia di volo Lufthansa ha accolto una petizione dell’associazione animalista PETA e non trasporta più né cani né gatti destinati alla vivisezione. In attesa che la VIVISEZIONE venga messa AL BANDO in TUTTO IL MONDO.

http://www.fermaregreenhill.net/wp/

Sul sito http://www.fermaregreenhill.net tutte le informazioni  necessarie.

http://blog.peta.org/archives/2010/04/victory_lufthansa.php

Me ne sto sdraiato sulla schiena disteso sotto un baldacchino di chilometri di testi e mezzo ubriaco provo paura di pensare a certi avvenimenti, a fatti terribilmente spiacevoli, a volte mi appare il nostro guardaboschi, come prese nella fodera rivoltata della manica una donnola sotto il basamento del capanno, e invece di ucciderla giustamente come punizione perché aveva mangiato i polli, il guardaboschi prese un chiodo e lo piantò nella testa della bestiola e la lasciò andare  la donnola lamentandosi corse per il cortile finché morì, altre volte mi viene come un anno dopo questo fatto il figlio del guardaboschi fu ucciso dalla corrente elettrica  mentre lavorava a una betoniera, ieri mi è apparsa di punto in bianco sotto il baldacchino la figura di un cacciatore il quale, quando sorprese da noi un riccio tutto raggomitolato, appuntì un paletto , e siccome un colpo di fucile sarebbe costato caro, piantò quel paletto nella pancia del riccio e in questo modo liquidò ogni riccio fino a quando si mise a letto con un cancro al fegato e per tutti i ricci agonizzò lentamente per tre mesi, raggomitolato, con un tumore nella pancia, finché morì…

(Bohumil Hrabal – Una solitudine troppo rumorosa)

Al BARBICAN, Londra, un’interessantisisma mostra:

RADICAL NATURE

ART AND ARCHITECTURE FOR A CHANGING PLANET – 19 JUNE-18 OCTOBER

http://www.barbican.org.uk/radical_nature


penelope-fitzgerald

June 3, 2004

A modest mistress of words

From The Times September 10, 1986

Caroline Moorhead

Penelope Fitzgerald is not the lucky kind of writer to whom subjects come naturally, headon, without ambiguity. Rather, they crop up unexpectedly, sneak up on her out of other matters, arrive when least expected. Innocence, published this week, might never have come to her at all had she not decided to spend a few spring weeks in Florence, with the idea of identifying the flowers in Botticelli’s Primavera, and found herself instead absorbed in the marital squabbling of a contessa with whom she was lodging and her doctor husband from the south of Italy.

The flowers turned out disappointing: Botticelli had left them to assistants with no keen eye for botany – though the absence from the painting of the wild iris, now to be found all over the place, made her speculate, with a true scholar’s curiosity, about the date it was introduced to Italy – and she discovered that the university gardens, supposed to contain an example of every Tuscan plant, had been given over to vegetables instead. However, the contessa’s quarrels provided her with another sort of thread, and Innocence came to be written about ‘people who don’t fit too well – as many don’t, I suppose’.

Though convincingly Italian in feeling, Innocence is not based on detailed research, over-attention to such matters. ‘I don’t think novels are about information’, she says. ‘If you wanted to know about Florence, you’d read a guide book. ‘ She was more worried about getting the Italians right, as people, not comic characters with funny accents.

Penelope Fitzgerald is one of those rare people who discovers a real talent only when well into middle age. In the Fifties she helped edit a literary magazine called World Review, but it was not until her husband fell ill 10 years ago that she thought to entertain him by writing ‘what, in my opinion, men most like reading: thrillers and history’. The first two books were a biography of Burne-Jones – whose red and pink glass windows at Birmingham Cathedral were the first things in her life that had struck her as beautiful – and what she insists on calling a ‘mystery’, as if the word ‘thriller’ were to give it too much dignity, centred around the Tutankhamun exhibition, which she has always suspected was made up not of original objects but of fakes. Thinking she stood more chance with a publisher not known for its crime list, she took it to Duckworth, who had not got one, but who accepted her book.

Then she moved towards straight fiction. ‘In spite of being so old and of such a literary family, I was very green. I didn’t know you were supposed to write five thrillers before readers knew you. Anyway, I couldn’t think of four more. ‘

Among the literary family was her father, E. G. V. Knox, editor of Punch, and the Catholic priest and writer Ronald Knox, and later she turned to a biography of the family. She wonders now why literature did not seem obvious to her earlier, instead of a somewhat haphazard progression from Somerville College to wartime work in the Ministry of Food and then the BBC. After the war, married and soon mother of three children, she stayed at home, living at Chelsea Reach on a houseboat until it sank.

In 1979, Penelope Fitzgerald won the Booker Prize for fiction, with her second novel, Offshore. It has altered her life considerably. It was the year the prize money reached pounds 10,000, awarded free of tax, and though she was embarrassed to find herself lined up in a row at the prize-giving as if still at school, with Kingsley Amis in the queue nearby, it has made her life as a novelist more possible. But she has not given up the coaching at Westminster Tutors, to which she says she is addicted: ‘Perhaps I ought to stop. I’m an impostor, you know. I have no certificate. Anyway, I’m like wine in a bottle: I think I’m deteriorating. ‘

About her plans and about the future she is, as on all topics, modest. Penelope Fitzgerald has that endearing combination of extreme self-deprecation and the natural sharpness of someone whose entire life has revolved around intelligence and the use of the mind. She has just completed a number of introductions for Virago books and says that, while she pictures other writers dashing theirs off between coming back from the theatre and going to bed, she takes ages to do hers and worries incessantly about whether they are good enough. A plan to write a biography of L. B. Hartley, who was a friend, may be abandoned as may all biography, which she says has become alarmingly competitive.

What there will be, though, is another novel. To get going, she needs a title, a first paragraph and a feeling about how the book will end. After that, it is endless work, on old envelopes, losing bits, enjoying best of all the dialogue, which she sees as the moment in a novel when ‘you feel close to the people and hear their voices’. Not, however, conversation, which she finds hard, and for which she admires Lawrence, who made it sound easy to do.

Penelope Fitzgerald divides her time between three rooms at the top of a friend’s house near St John’s Wood, with an old-fashioned gas-fire and postcards pinned to the walls, and her older daughter’s house in Somerset. ‘I don’t really know where I live. It doesn’t worry me. I know it’s become immoral not to be busy, but I think I like pottering. ‘ In Somerset, she is in charge of the garden. ‘Gardening, I think, is even worse than writing. There’s all that worry about things not being out and vegetables not doing what they ought to do. ‘

DOGWALKER    di Arthur Bradford (amico dei Mc Sweeney’s)  tradotto in italiano da Einaudi.

Una raccolta di racconti più o meni brevi per gli amanti dei cani, delle storie di cani e delle metamorfosi, zeppa di bestie rare di varia natura, umana e non. Freaks and dogs: una vera e propria bibbia nel campo.

“Dogs” è un piccolo gioiello:dove inizia e dove finisce l’amore? Davvero ciò che ci distingue dagli animali è la parola? Un raro caso in cui l’albero genealogico  può insegnare qualcosa di notevole.  
dogwalker2

Pagina successiva »