was the distant 1998. At the time of the Cascine summer amphitheater was a place of meetings and events or otherwise "things organized" were these markets, various events or theme parties.
The idea was the most common: we ANFE, drink a beer, two barrels and we do that in peace there, no one breaks the bales, and feels a bit 'of music.
Now, I might say that: to me the beer made me considerably more disgusting, the barrel is not the son I never made and even gave me (and damage) boredom well as cigarettes, and about my musical tastes c 'has little to say since I'm not an intellectual nor un'intenditrice of sound. I like the stuff more or less simple musically and then choose the message consistent or extremely danceable. In short, things rarely found in a place where he reigned as the ANFI techno, punk-rock of uncertain origin and the terrible jazz, soporific for me no less ignorant of the stench of weed.
short, a white fly. Even in my small circle of friends to accompany me. One of
ANFE endless nights for me, God, apparently to reward them for such a 
sacrifice, offered me a shed library.
sacrifice, offered me a shed library. We made a turn and suddenly I was attracted by a book with the cover and simple with a catchy title. It was "blue flowers" by Raymond Queinau in the beautiful and essential EINAUDI edition with translation of Italo Calvino.
I opened it, curious.
"I the twenty-five milleduecentosessantaquattro September, at daybreak, the Duke of Auge climbed on top of the tower of his castle for a moment to consider the historical situation. He found it unclear. Remnants of the past in bulk is still dragging here and there. On the banks of were camped near a stream Hun or two and while away a rooster, perhaps Edueno, daringly dipped their feet in the cool current. It drew on the horizon the silhouettes of some untrimmed Roman Law, buckwheat, old Franco, unknown vandals. The Normans bevevan Calvados. The Duke of Auge sighed without interrupting the careful consideration of those phenomena worn. The Huns cooked steak tartare, smoked Gitanes the Gaulois, the Romans drew Greek, the French played lire, the gate valve closed shutters. The Normans were drinking calvados . "
was obviously love at first sight. In a completeness of emotions: curiosity of the unknown, the guarantee of 'intermediary' Calvin the simple elegance of the edition, the crackling of the incipit diversity.
And it was a complete and satisfying love story: of Queinau I read (and given / recommended / loaned) almost all readable, in which forces quell'afflato crazy and desperate to go neatly and methodically across the road traveled by the writer at the time. Well
of perfect joints so there was only this in my life.
Yesterday I went, after so much time in bookstores. Since the old suppressed Marzocco go to the library always seems a coitus interruptus. The old
Marzocco find anything. I've got kid bought the biography of books and texts The Doors and a little 'later those of Dante criticism. The old
Marzocco small booksellers were a little 'bent who knew her inside out. And not only that the books would sell them but they read them, deeply. And they knew all about them: possible new editions, color cover, place on the shelf, introductions, time of arrival. Everything. A vice
wonderful to see them move skillful and safe.
That could not last, we agree. The closed set (or just before) the other libraries of Florence: Le Monnier, for example. Today "Mondadori" in Via San Gallo. Immediately after the inauguration I went to buy the trilogy for a friend of Calvin. I was a boy meeting offered his help. I asked her to be not too expensive edition of this trilogy. I carry "The path of the spiders' nests." Beautiful text. But it is one, not three.
So I decided to take refuge in the cold while Feltrinelli poinfine was the only one to have been wishful thinking (albeit limited) cultural heritage.
Yesterday I left work at 18.30 and I walked toward the center. And the center is beautiful in summer at that time. So I lost lingering in the marble and stone in the warm sun. And when I arrived by Feltrinelli, I found it closed. An unbearable disappointment.
little farther than Feltrinelli is MelBooks Store. The upside? open until midnight.
purists were horrified, but maybe for me it made my day and I appreciated.
Inside, the library is not even cold air conditioned wine cellar in the desert. The order book is logical and immediate. An initial screening "best sellers" in my ear that suggested a malignant type stuff "on courage, read all these books, you really need to look further? Who do you think you are?". I'll be paranoid, but so be it.
step further. My goal was to buy something that I enjoy so much Jo Soares.
even contemplated.
I hoped then the economic model "Blue Flowers". I picked up dozens of books which
A) I do not remember the title and author (and this is significant)
B) had covers or pretentious or just bad (I know that the content is what matters but also the eye wants its part!)
C) had opening words of the type "she said ..."
In exchange, the staff is courteous and the books are cheap, as are all decorated with bows of discounts.
And this is a good thing. As the close to midnight, and give me a chance, despite working hours, walking through the books waiting for the thunderbolt.
I found Izzo's books, which I just finished "total mess". I stopped watching them. What curious is that I loved "Casino Total" (for which I thank James ) so as to be anti-social with the people around you until I finished, but despite this, I could not take away anyone. And I do not know why. Perhaps because his is a way of writing that you drain a bit, 'so dry and sharp. Perhaps because it seems always on the side of repetition of self. Or maybe for the titles (not excellent, I would like this ...) or perhaps even the gloom of the covers (although the editions are aesthetically impeccable Feltrinelli at least in most cases).
I eventually bought an edition of the apocryphal gospels always Einaudi (I have the habit of aesthetics Einaudi!) as well as the copy of "The Gospel According to Jesus Christ" by Saramago (who was so much that I wanted to read) aesthetics terrible Mondadori edition of the Gnostic Gospels (But it was cheap) and other bullshit before concluding with the satisfaction of at least bring home the small but precious "love story" by J. and Guimaraes Rosa. Feltrinelli (single blind copy on the shelf nda), editing simple and beautiful even if slightly questionable choice of colors of binding.
Guimaraes Rosa is uncontainable emotion language adapted to the heart, that twists and then get s'inasprisce girl, sweet and almost languid for Speaking of the Sertao, the Brazilian desert and its people.
I carry a song that made me move (and to think that it is in translation!):
"Because, first, slobbering all over a fossettino, a stream coming down the slope, a little stream, hopping in hurry to go down, well down in the Torrent of Stone [...] A slender rivulet, pure, shade, liveliness and gaiety with defined and all its din - ah, this was not the economy: the top quality water to drink. So they decided to make the house there, looking to combine with the bank of the stream [...] However, just-in-chief for a year that were there, and when least expected, the stream stopped. It happened one night, coming in the morning, everyone was sleeping But everyone felt, suddenly, in the heart, the outbreak of the little silence he said, the lack of sharp chatter of little noise. They awoke, they spoke. Even children. Even the dogs barked. [...] "He has lost his voice ..." Sad certainty: deeper, farther in silense, had gone away, the trickle of all. "
I started reading it on the bus, as of duty, leaving behind a cathedral that was like alabaster. 
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