[quote:aae5ed9f65="balkan wolf"]L'ex ingegnere Dostojevskij capisce con un secolo di anticipo rispetto al medico Celine questioni attorno alle quali quest'ultimo si arrovella confusamente.
puttana galera che cazzata dispe
dosto ci mette na vita a spiegare i sensi di colpa di uno che accoppa na vecchia poi apro il giornale e leggo di 3 ragazzini che stuprano e ammazzano na bimbetta con sadismo convinto
come funziona la cosa???
dosto è accademia cazzo celine è la vita vera cruda e senza sconti
inoltre dosto scrive da intrettenitore di borghesi memorabile breton che lo usa come esempio da non seguire descrivendo la stanza di delitto e castigo e aggiungendo "io in quella stanza non ci entrerò mai"
ovv. massimo rispetto a freddo e stima "culturale" ma è roba da padri di famiglia che si fan na buona lettura belli comodi e rassicurati
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ecco, sei il solito bastardaccio che mi fa il vecchio giochino sleale "spaccato di vita vera VS accademia"
da un punto di vista puramente estetico che ti devo dire se non
[b:aae5ed9f65]ACCADEMIA DURA E PURA RULEZ FINO ALLA FINE[/b:aae5ed9f65], echeccaz
Mi sovviene un passo memorabile di Mario Puzo in "Fools die" (I folli muoiono in Ita)
"That prick," he said. "He told me to read the classics for inspiration. That ignorant fuck. Have you ever tried to read the classics over again? Jesus, those old fuckers like Hardy and Tolstoy and Galsworthy had it made. They took forty pages to let out a fart. And you know why? They had their readers trapped. They had them by the balls. No TV, no radio, no movies. No traveling unless you wanted cysts over your asshole from bouncing around on stagecoaches. In England you couldn't even get fucked. Maybe that's why the French writers were more disciplined. The French at least were into fucking, not like those English Victorian jerkoffs. Now I ask you why should a guy with a TV set and a beach house read Proust?"
I'd never been able to read Proust, so I nodded. But I had read everybody else and couldn't see TV or a beach house taking their place.
Osano kept going."Anna Karenina, they call it a masterpiece. It's a full-of-shit book. It's an educated upper-class guy condescending to women. He never shows you what that broad really feels or thinks. He gives us the conventional outlook of that time and place. And then he goes on for three hundred pages on how to run a Russian farm. He sticks that right in there as if anybody gives a shit. And who gives a shit about that asshole Vronsky and his soul? Jesus, I don't know who's worse, the Russians or the English. That fucking Dickens and Trollope, five hundred pages were nothing to them. They wrote when they had time off from tending their garden. The French kept it short at least. But how about that fucking Balzac? I defy! I defy! anybody to read him today."
He took a slug of whiskey and gave out a sigh. "None of them knew how to use language. None of them except Flanbert, and he's not that great. Not that Americans are that much better. That fuck Dreiser doesn't even know what words mean. He's illiterate, I mean that. He's a fucking aborigine. Another nine-hundred-page pain in the ass. None of those fucking guys could get published today, and if they did, the critics would murder them. Boy, those guys had it made then. No competition." He paused and sighed wearily. "Merlyn, my boy, we're a dying breed, writers like us. Find another racket, hustle TV shit, do movies. You can do that stuff with your finger up your ass." Then, exhausted, he would lie on the couch he kept in his office for his afternoon snooze.
"George, George... Ukraine is NOT a country..."