One of he worst thing you can do to me

Stop me from reading. My brain is thirsty and curious. My eyes, my hands, my imagination, black ink on a white page… that`s all I need.

I usually read lying on the bed, on the sofa, on the sand, on the grass, in the train, airplane, and bus.

I read because I like to imagine myself in the situations, I like to give my own features and personality to characters, I like to assume what is going to happen next. I read because I think everything is written, everything is said, there is not much we can describe or discover nowadays. We need to always look back and understand what others before us want to tell us in a book or article. After we are conscious of what is already said and written, the questions we always ask to ourselves will find answers spontaneously and naturally. Also, our desire of communicate what we think may find full expression in the supreme beauty of art.

I read whatever I think in a particular moment of my life will help me in improving my mood, relaxing, amaze me, entertain me. I loved for a while Andrea Camilleri, I still love him, but I am desperately looking for some English writers comparable to him.

I like to go to the book store and just stay there, looking and smelling the atmosphere, until I find some book who calls me to me. I feel that the best books I red in my life are the ones I red exactly in the moment in which they gave me what I was looking for, the ones from what I absorbed every minimal detail, and this, unfortunately, it happens once in a while. I also was used to read entire books at the store, partially for greed of knowledge or curiosity and partially for fun motivations toward saving money.

The inner wealth has no price. Event the simplest sentence leaves a trace on my minds, in my heart. I like to capture sentences and make them mine; guard them until I need to use, with myself, or to help someone, or just to remember how beautiful is life and how desperately we need to love our world.

I copied this from facebook, but I like it

DOES GOD EXISTS?
During a lesson, a university professor launch a challenge to its pupils with the following question: “Did God created everything exists? “A pupil answered with courage: ” Yes, It created all… ““Really, did God created all which exists?” he asked again. Yes, the young person answered. The professor answered: “If God has created all which exists, God has made also the evil, since the evil exists! And if we establish that our actions are a reflection of ourselves, them God is bad” The young person shout up in front of the answer of the master, proud to have demonstrated, still one more time, than faith was a myth.
Another student raised the hand and said: “can I make a question, professor?” “of course”, it was the answer of the professor. The young person raised and said: ” professor, does the cold exists?” “But! Which question is this? … Logical that exists, or maybe you have not never felt cold” The boy answered: “In reality, gentleman, the cold does not exist. According to the laws of the Physical, what we consider cold, in reality it is the absence of heat. Every body or object can be studied when it possesses or it transmits energy; the heat  allows the body to withhold or to transmit energy. Absolute zero is the total absence of heat; all the bodies remain inert, incapable to react, but the cold does not exist. We have created this definition in order to describe as we feel when we do not have heat. Now the student continued “does the dark exist? ”,. The professor answered: “yes, it exists”. The boy answered: “The dark does not exist. The dark, in reality, is the absence of light. We can study the light, not the dark! Through the prism of Nichols, the white light can be decomposed in several colors, with their different wavelengths. The dark, cannot! … How can we know the degree of dark in a determined space? Based on the presence of some amount of light in that space. The dark is a definition used from the man in order to describe the degree of darkness when there is no light”. In order to conclude, the young person inquires the professor: “Does the evil exists?” And the university professor answered: “As I have asserted at the beginning, we see crimes, violence all over the world. Those things come from the evil” the student answered: “The evil does not exist, professor, or maybe it does not exist by itself. The evil is simply the absence of goodness…the evil is a definition that the man has invented in order to describe the absence of God. God did not create the evil…The evil is the result of the absence of God in the heart of the human beings. The same happens with the cold, when there is no heat, or with the dark, when there is no light “. Everyone stand up to applaud the young person and the master, shaking his head, remained silent. The chancellor of the University, that it was present, walked towards the young student and he asked him: “What is your name” The answer was: “My name is Albert Einstein”.
God is a truth " not tangibile" but He lives in our hearts. Let`s learn to listen to him.

su Andrea Camilleri

Quando leggi Andrea Camilleri vieni trasportato, con una forza incontrollabile, in un mondo quasi surreale: la vera Sicilia. Quella fatta di odori, colori, sensazioni, urla di gioia, grida di dolore; quella che si assopisce al tramonto, quando il tempo segue il suo corso e la pace, l’aria immobile, il tacito suono della natura si scatenano in un languido concerto, e la terra, il sole, la luna e il mare ci vanno appresso.

Quella Sicilia così nuda, baciata dal sole, un sole che  ne sviscera i suoi più lussuriosi segreti e, al contempo ne occulta i suoi più lucidi pensieri fino a renderla ancella di se stesso; così o mia Sicilia, concubina di una stella, come una Signora ti fai ammirare, come una Regina ti fai rispettare, come una Madre ti fai amare.

Caro Andrea, dove trovate la forza di trasmettere ai vostri lettori tutta la passione che risiede nell’animo vostro?

Com’è che riuscite a scrivere pagine su pagine, righe su righe, parole su parole, e a rendere eloquente persino il bianco, laddove non c’è inchiostro, là, tra le righe, tra una parola e l’altra? Forse che il vocabolario della lingua italo-siciliana non vi è sufficiente?  Come spiegate voi, caro Andrea, il concetto di “tuffarsi in un libro”? è facile coi vostri. Non puoi farne a meno, è più forte di te, quando cominci, tempo 24 ore e sei giunto alla fine. Che fate? Ridete?

E come si spiega, allora, quel senso di malinconia che, come una serpe, si insinua nelle tue viscere quando ti accorgi che mancano poche pagine alla fine? Combatti con te stesso, frustrato dall’indecisione tra affrettarsi per giungere alla conclusione o indugiare ancora, solo qualche istante,  per  assaporare l’allegra danza dei tuoi neuroni che partoriscono ipotesi, pensieri, sogni, fantasie. E quando arriva quel momento, quando anche l’ultima pagina è stata digerita, è come se a forza ti strappassero via da un buco da cui ti eri, così piacevolmente, lasciato risucchiare.

Il tuo animo è guidato dall’intensità dei  vocaboli, da nient’altro, in un crescendo di sensazioni, in un miscuglio di emozioni, fino all’ennesima, conclusiva marcia trionfale, che in un solo accordo, con la forza di un uragano, abusa delle tue vibrazioni e in perfetta armonia con le ultime parole … freme.

Poi ti guardi intorno e tutto ti sembra statico, immobile, come se il rintocco del tempo non fosse mai sceso su quella stanza, solo per concederti qualche momento ancora, in compagnia di te stesso … e dei vostri, Andrea.

Ti chiedi se è stato solo un viaggio, un’avventura, un sogno tutto quel putiferio di nomi, luoghi, voci, sguardi, sapori …

 È un trauma quasi come un parto, quello del ritorno alla realtà; entri in uno stato pressoché di digiuno durante il quale conti  i minuti d‘attesa prima di tuffarti in un‘altra storia.

E come se nulla fosse stato, la pietruzza che bloccava l’ingranaggio del tempo viene spazzata via, e si ricomincia a vivere.

Grazie per avermi insegnato a ritrovare un po’ di me stessa in ogni situazione da te descritta, in ognuno dei tuoi personaggi, in ciascuno dei luoghi che,  seppur inventati, sono più reali di quel che si creda.

E semmai potrò incontrarla di pirsona pirsonalmente  vorrei dirle: grazie di essere Siciliano.

UN’ AMMIRATRICE