"Well, this was when Bill was sighing a lot. He had decided that after our parents died he just didn't want any more fighting between what was left of us. He was twenty-four, Beth was twenty-three, I was twenty-one, Toph was eight, and all of us were so tried already, from that winter. So when something world come up, any little thing, some bill to pay or decision to make, he would just sigh, his eyes tired, his mouth in a sorry kind of smile. But Beth and I...Jesus, we were fighting with everyone, anyone, each other, with strangers at bars, anywhere -- we were angry people wanting to exact revenge. We came to California and we wanted everything, would take what was ours, anything within reach. And I decided that little Toph and I, he with his backward hat and long hair, living together in our little house in Berkeley, would be world-destroyers. We inherited each other and, we felt, a responsibility to reinvent everything, to scoff and re-create and drive fast while singing loudly and pounding the windows. It was a hopeless sort of exhilaration, a kind of arrogance born of fatalism, I guess, of the feeling that if you could lose a couple of parents in a month, then basically anything could happen, at any time -- all bullets bear your name, all cars are there to crush you, any balcony could give way; more disaster seemed only logical. And then, as in Dorothy's dream, all these people I grew up with were there, too, some of them orphans also, most but not all of us believing that what we had been given was extraordinary, that it was time to tear or break down, ruin, remake, take and devour. This was San Francisco, you know, and everyone had some dumb idea -- I mean, wicca? -- and no one there would tell you yours was doomed. Thus the public nudity, and this ridiculous magazine, and the Real World tryout, all this need, most of it disguised by sneering, but all driven by a hyper-awareness of this window, I guess, a few years when your muscles are taut, coiled up and vibrating. But what to do with the energy? I mean, when we drive, Toph and I, and we drive past people, standing on top of all these hills, part of me wants to stop the car and turn up the radio and have us all dance in formation, and part of me wants to run them all over."...Continua
If this book is any indication, then it seems that Egger's carreer is built on the confusion of contrivance as creativity.
Troppo dispersivo, non sono riuscita a concentrarmi.
Tragico e comico si fondono in modi interessanti e grotteschi, molti passaggi sono divertenti. In generale però il flusso di coscienza del protagonista è dispersivo e molte pagine sembrano scritte senza uno scopo preciso.
Mi è piaciuto molto. Un libro molto personale e autobiografico, vista la vicenda dell'autore, e al tempo stesso in grado di toccare le vite di tutti. Una buona lettura, in particolare per chi va verso i 30 anni. Lo stile, poi, lo trovo per molti versi una moderna evoluzione di Joyce e Salinger....Continua
Altro libro abbandonato questa estate, non sono stato fortunato nelle scelte. Se lo scrittore si fosse fermato a circa 150 pagine forse tre stelline si sarebbero anche potute dare. Troppo lungo, troppo confuso, troppo.
Sì. Mi è piaciuto tantissimo.
Scritto benissimo, da un formidabile genio, che ha realmente creato un'opera struggente.
Quasi un flusso di coscienza infinito.
Bellissimo il rapporto tra i due fratelli e ho trovato sublime il concetto di "essere in credito con la vita".