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312 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2006
Pt. 1 - DISORDINI
Purezza = ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
Il responsabile cittadino = ⭐⭐⭐⭐
Luna park e altre storie = ⭐⭐⭐ 1/2
Il pagliaccio marionetta = ⭐⭐⭐
La Torre Rossa = ⭐⭐⭐⭐
Pt. 2 - DEFORMAZIONI
A favore dell’azione punitiva = ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
Il nostro supervisore temporaneo = ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
In una città straniera, in una terra straniera = ⭐⭐⭐1/2
Pt. 3 - I GUASTI E I MALATI
Teatro Grottesco = ⭐⭐⭐⭐
I luna park alle stazioni di rifornimento = ⭐⭐⭐⭐ 1/2
l villino = ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
Severini =⭐⭐⭐⭐
L’ombra, l’oscurità = ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
Although we may reasonably presume that such creations were not to be called beautiful, we cannot know for ourselves the mysteries and mechanisms of, for instance, how these creations moved throughout the hazy luminescence of that underground world; what creaky or spasmic gestures they might have been capable of executing, if any; what sounds they might have made or the organs used for making them; how they might have appeared when awkwardly emerging from deep shadows or squatting against those nameless headstones; what trembling stages of mutation they almost certainly would have undergone following the generation of their larvae upon the barren earth of the graveyard; what their bodies might have produced or emitted in the way of fluids or secretions; how they might have responded to the mutilation of their forms for reasons of an experimental or entirely savage nature. Often I picture to myself what frantically clawing efforts these creations probably made to deliver themselves from that confining environment which their malformed or non-existent brains could not begin to understand. They could not have comprehended, any more than can I, for what purpose they were bread from those graves, those incubators of hyper-organisms, minute factories of flesh that existed wholly within and far below the greater factory of the Red Tower.
But I wanted to believe that the artist who created these dream monologues about the bungalow house and the derelict factory had not set out to break my heart or anyone’s heart. I wanted to believe that this artist had escaped the dreams and demons of all sentiment in order to explore the foul and crummy delights of a universe where everything had been reduced to three stark principles: first, that there was nowhere for you to go; second, that there was nothing for you to do; and third, that there was no one for you to know. Of course I knew that this view was an illusion like any other, but it was also one that had sustained me so long and so well – as long and as well as any other illusion and perhaps longer, perhaps better.