Vecla
Finally, my old words can let their hair grow white. Words, I say, to say sentences, phrasing, articulation and join, leaving the speech rhythm and conclude strolling away. Now my writing, already old, lets go to the repetition, the memory of him, the nostalgia of the first discoveries of the musicality that is vague rhythmic beat of my fingers and the keys to a discourse that has its times, the pauses, even his overflowing with empty virtual unexpressed but expressible in their own inexpressibility. So I let myself disaccentare, losing the rhythm of my feet, not just literary ones my arthritic legs and shaky.
not tell me anything that ion do not know, but will not know re-will know that "time" inimitable be imitated because they are too, I said one day, subjecting them to merciless criticism.
Now that you know, it's time to die. So he wrote. So he wrote
Yes my good friend Fraenkel, in the throes of profound fatigue writers. Before writing his masterpiece, Nobel carried oblige that, in fact, never wrote, but it remains his masterpiece, "A novel with white hair" - not a good subtitle? I could not put me to write it for the sake of my friend Fraenkel, in his words falsely invecchiantesi. That good old
Minutes wine!
