Arezzo, from its Renaissance-cultural arrogance-enogastronomic perhaps was not ready on arrival. Or maybe it was all too accustomed to that kind of media tricks. In any case it was a strange thing. In
burnished brick house - who knows if that was the color original - just steps from the Medici fortress and the cathedral, some centuries before Petrarch was born there and lived his early years. I'm not saying you have some thought to (quickly followed his father into exile, and moved from intellectual wandering throughout life), but part of its human genius must lie not far, if only in the ephemeral form of Genius loci . Less than a century ago, the city's reputation was linked to the name of Guitton, rhymer so reviled as the substance of the facts, imitated from Dante. Pietro Aretino, as the name suggests, to some extent must have forged his sharp tongue of satire is not far from here. I will not dwell on the Vasari, which is not my responsibility, but the name should be enough to confirm their authority.
I have been conquered, subjugated, rusticated from simple and elegant, soaring towers, slender walls, the cobbled streets down from the bell tower of Santa Maria della Pieve, the stunning frescoes of the cathedral, from wine bars full of young people and tourists ( German, alas) and toast and steaming pasty chianti and pappardelle woman looks rough and brown sandals poems zolfini Gorgias Tuscan pergola hotel where making love nooks streets smell of gunpowder halberds hill holy relics students nuns breasts ankles Brunello di Montalcino "Or See, Love, thy kingdom giovenetta woman scorn, my et ill do not care, et duo between ta 'enemy and secure "
... All this before watching it. It was an arrogant fucking face fucking fucking already across the screen. One of those vile beings who, damn it, I am ashamed even to mention, because my language is likely to mythopoeic poets and oral sex, not to throw rotten wood in the hearth of the fame of this shit man. But the event was too uncanny not to tell.
What I liked to orgasm in Arezzo I have already said. But the situation was even more idyllic. I was sitting in the square Vitruvius, his back to the porch-scented hills, looking arch centuries-old buildings, tall, bronzed, held up by the Prussian blue sky-to-be as a spell or a hook that invisible shadow summer, to my right the church of Santa Maria, illuminated by spotlights yellowish, acted as a counterweight to the natural slope that bends to the left square, downhill. Before me, a Chianti hills of Arezzo, ruby, light, warm, instinctively (I was not even a Proust any) pulled me in memory of a Siena a year and a half ago - a Siena for me was the whole of Tuscany, all the 'Italy, the whole world that swirled about sex with the love of poetry and paintings of the '400 slurred between a glass and the other -, the next table, a sort of smiled Mezzabotta calm at the mouth while wearing a smartly noodle sauce of hare, and his youngest girl of twenty years at least, a bit 'listless, reading a book in French from the cathedral, from time to time, came the echoes of the barrels of the party the patron saint. Then a
scoured, which attracted perhaps if the anger of Petrarch's Genius loci. Flash cameras. So many people around, close, I felt, I went to one side, almost on top. A urletto. Maybe if they saw the square, Arezzo noticed it and let go, like a whore who no longer is even more makeup, a whore who suddenly realize you have many years or centuries and the first passage of a youngster from you part, withdraws, hides. Fabrizio Corona
appeared so in this whirlwind of decline, somewhere between the appetizer and the first, immediately before and immediately after the brunello chianti well known. The tight white T-shirt, to highlight the disgusting swollen conventional muscoletto, tattoos and ugly, and many blacks, the expression of arrogant prick. He passed me expecting, I dunno, a nod, a recognition, reprimand, in short, a fucking reaction, not even me, from my table, from the next table, the girl Mezzabotta, but nothing, nothing from us. So he poured out on a group of bad boys out, then threw herself into the arms of the host, affable host of the same that just before I had brought my chicken liver crostini and the simple oil, and a taste of tomato soup and one of panzanella (the face of the fucking anti-carbohydrate diet), and he welcomes him, cuddle him, gives you a good table, not the best, not the worst, a nice table with a view, not too much, if you want to see him come in and maybe eat. I do not know if the Crown receives something cowardly asshole in money, but if I only had a glass of wine in exchange for his dirty little face, it would be a shameful commercialization. It is low and trivial and has a voice soft and dishonest, I heard a long time, oh if I heard it from my table all night, or rather for all twenty minutes before to escape from the infected site. He talked about useless things, not things scandalous nor morbid things, spoke of Carla and a Jo, on which shadows the boys above projected profiles of famous people drawing from their demonic store characters from cover.
I still wonder what he centers with my Tuscany, with my memories of love and sex and wine, with my humanism conceited and arrogant. I do not know, my snobbery is misplaced, it will be the usual desire to give himself a tone, strength, and all against all. But, damn, some of the many characters' famous him. Do not Umberto Eco, Luciano de Crescenzo, Corrado Guzzanti. To infect him this small, personal, superb corner of space-time.
burnished brick house - who knows if that was the color original - just steps from the Medici fortress and the cathedral, some centuries before Petrarch was born there and lived his early years. I'm not saying you have some thought to (quickly followed his father into exile, and moved from intellectual wandering throughout life), but part of its human genius must lie not far, if only in the ephemeral form of Genius loci . Less than a century ago, the city's reputation was linked to the name of Guitton, rhymer so reviled as the substance of the facts, imitated from Dante. Pietro Aretino, as the name suggests, to some extent must have forged his sharp tongue of satire is not far from here. I will not dwell on the Vasari, which is not my responsibility, but the name should be enough to confirm their authority.
I have been conquered, subjugated, rusticated from simple and elegant, soaring towers, slender walls, the cobbled streets down from the bell tower of Santa Maria della Pieve, the stunning frescoes of the cathedral, from wine bars full of young people and tourists ( German, alas) and toast and steaming pasty chianti and pappardelle woman looks rough and brown sandals poems zolfini Gorgias Tuscan pergola hotel where making love nooks streets smell of gunpowder halberds hill holy relics students nuns breasts ankles Brunello di Montalcino "Or See, Love, thy kingdom giovenetta woman scorn, my et ill do not care, et duo between ta 'enemy and secure "
... All this before watching it. It was an arrogant fucking face fucking fucking already across the screen. One of those vile beings who, damn it, I am ashamed even to mention, because my language is likely to mythopoeic poets and oral sex, not to throw rotten wood in the hearth of the fame of this shit man. But the event was too uncanny not to tell.
What I liked to orgasm in Arezzo I have already said. But the situation was even more idyllic. I was sitting in the square Vitruvius, his back to the porch-scented hills, looking arch centuries-old buildings, tall, bronzed, held up by the Prussian blue sky-to-be as a spell or a hook that invisible shadow summer, to my right the church of Santa Maria, illuminated by spotlights yellowish, acted as a counterweight to the natural slope that bends to the left square, downhill. Before me, a Chianti hills of Arezzo, ruby, light, warm, instinctively (I was not even a Proust any) pulled me in memory of a Siena a year and a half ago - a Siena for me was the whole of Tuscany, all the 'Italy, the whole world that swirled about sex with the love of poetry and paintings of the '400 slurred between a glass and the other -, the next table, a sort of smiled Mezzabotta calm at the mouth while wearing a smartly noodle sauce of hare, and his youngest girl of twenty years at least, a bit 'listless, reading a book in French from the cathedral, from time to time, came the echoes of the barrels of the party the patron saint. Then a
scoured, which attracted perhaps if the anger of Petrarch's Genius loci. Flash cameras. So many people around, close, I felt, I went to one side, almost on top. A urletto. Maybe if they saw the square, Arezzo noticed it and let go, like a whore who no longer is even more makeup, a whore who suddenly realize you have many years or centuries and the first passage of a youngster from you part, withdraws, hides. Fabrizio Corona
appeared so in this whirlwind of decline, somewhere between the appetizer and the first, immediately before and immediately after the brunello chianti well known. The tight white T-shirt, to highlight the disgusting swollen conventional muscoletto, tattoos and ugly, and many blacks, the expression of arrogant prick. He passed me expecting, I dunno, a nod, a recognition, reprimand, in short, a fucking reaction, not even me, from my table, from the next table, the girl Mezzabotta, but nothing, nothing from us. So he poured out on a group of bad boys out, then threw herself into the arms of the host, affable host of the same that just before I had brought my chicken liver crostini and the simple oil, and a taste of tomato soup and one of panzanella (the face of the fucking anti-carbohydrate diet), and he welcomes him, cuddle him, gives you a good table, not the best, not the worst, a nice table with a view, not too much, if you want to see him come in and maybe eat. I do not know if the Crown receives something cowardly asshole in money, but if I only had a glass of wine in exchange for his dirty little face, it would be a shameful commercialization. It is low and trivial and has a voice soft and dishonest, I heard a long time, oh if I heard it from my table all night, or rather for all twenty minutes before to escape from the infected site. He talked about useless things, not things scandalous nor morbid things, spoke of Carla and a Jo, on which shadows the boys above projected profiles of famous people drawing from their demonic store characters from cover.
I still wonder what he centers with my Tuscany, with my memories of love and sex and wine, with my humanism conceited and arrogant. I do not know, my snobbery is misplaced, it will be the usual desire to give himself a tone, strength, and all against all. But, damn, some of the many characters' famous him. Do not Umberto Eco, Luciano de Crescenzo, Corrado Guzzanti. To infect him this small, personal, superb corner of space-time.
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