Nefòs

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The novel tells of a new war, a new beginning for humanity. Nefòs is an anagram of En Sof, which, in the Zohar, is first and foremost. Before man, before creation.
In this story Nefòs becomes a computer that decides the fate of humanity.
Of a renaissance man, who, like a Kafka story continues to revolve around himself without really being able to come back to the world.
It ‘s a story that hardly ever talk about the Kabbalah, is woven into Jewish mysticism.

Nefòs [Novel] – fragment

Ester goes out, takes her car, goes back home. Andrea turns on the screen, grabs a bottle of vodka, sits down on the couch and drinks.

She really know fuck all about me. Always the same shit, when things are good I’m the best person in the world, and oh so much love do I give her, but then, when she’s just a bit nervous over some bullshit, bingo! I become the careless fuck who gives no shit about all the evil in the world. But really what the fuck do I care about Fregli, Victor, the dissidents and the Nine? What the fuck are them for me? What are they worth? What’s the difference? They’re one and the same, with their own ideologies, all hunting for power, all believing they’re the only right ones in this fucking world. As if anything would change, as if Fregli was different from one of the Nine. Did he die in the war, maybe? No, against his own ideas he went with Blinz, knowing he would have won, exactly like the Nine did. And Ester as well, feeling so good and nice to carry out such a risky action as taking one cunt to meet another cunt. The fool, she doesn’t even know that she does it just to feel good and useful for the cause, but she doesn’t give a shit about the Nine and the dissidents, too. At Mario’s with Mario, that’s what Ester really is, forget the bullshit. But then she tells me to be fully myself when I’m in bed with her. Sure, so she can feel the whore that she really is, bloody hypocrite. And fuck her too, who the fuck looked out for her? Was it me to tell her to start again? And then again, didn’t she know already how careless I am, how little I care about the whole fucking world? Poor middle class hypocrite bitch. Hypocrite bitch, that’s all she is. How many bloody years have we been together, always pretending for the common good, no, not for the common good, for a mutual welfare, for the need to stay in the surface, to have fun and share love, only love, what a drag, how can I tell her that love is the most overrated thing there is? Oh no, we must tell us that we give each other love, and then maybe in bed let go and become who we really are, some fucking apes in suit and tie, that’s what we really are. But then I am the monster because I don’t say what I’m supposed to say, I don’t do what I’m supposed to do, and Agnese as well, it goes without saying. And what the fuck does she know about Agnese, eh, what the fuck do you know about her, Ester? Have you ever really asked me anything? You just wanted me to tell you the things you wanted to hear, so you could forgive me, so you could understand me, so you could convince yourself I’m not a monster, I just make mistakes. What the fuck do you know about my bollocks, Ester, about what me and Agnese had together? It’s better not to know, it’s better to separate, after all we separate everything since we are born, we’re just Jews after all, are we? Even people, let’s separate people carefully as well, separate what’s wrong in them from what’s right in them, then according to our feeling towards that person, we forget about one of the parts. If you love me, I am good, if you got problems, if Clara disappears to get fucked by one of the Nine, then I’m a beast. Fuck off once and for all, you damn hypocrite, and stay the fuck away, Ester, this time, don’t wait for your state of mind to chance, so you can forget who I am, so you can forget about Agnese and the whole rotten world, you fool. As if the only thing that matters was not the direction. And go, study the Torah better than you did as a child, maybe you will realize all the bullshit you told me and how hypocrite is the life you lead, you idiot. Really, fuck you and you inability to admit that you went with Mario to understand who you really are, forget all the bullshit, but no, oh no, you need to have an average relationship, an average man, maybe with slightly different thoughts from the average, sure, a man that’s splendidly alternative, that’s against, but always within good taste boundaries, always within moral boundaries imposed by someone else, what the fuck, otherwise you’re indecent, you’re a monster, right? And you, Ester, who the fuck do you think you are, with your whining and your pro-dissidents actions? Sure, you say you feel like being in a movie, you always are in a movie, bloody idiot, and as soon as you get out of it you understand nothing at all, of course, because the plot’s been written by someone else, so it’ll suck, but there’s no risk in living it, is there? Go, get back home, all the better for it, there’s no movie around here, there fuck all around here, bitch. 

Translated by Pietro Maggi

confessioni di un ologramma [romanzo] – frammento

Il tempo diventa brutto di colpo, la pioggia cade copiosa. Ugo è completamente bagnato, torniamo al residence e lo asciugo. È difficile capire l’espressione dei cani, io ne ho visti da quando sono nato, eppure certe volte hanno l’aria di essere tristi, senza alcun motivo. Si siedono e guardano il vuoto. Ugo adesso è così, mi guarda, ma per pochi secondi, poi sembra non vedere nulla, assorto chissà dove. Eppure viviamo insieme da dieci anni, abbiamo cambiato paesi e città e siamo stati insieme quasi sempre ventiquattro ore al giorno. E non riesco ancora a condividere tutto, e ancora tutto non mi dà, tiene una piccola parte per sé, tanto piccola e così altrove che spesso mi chiedo se la sua vera vita non sia solo quella, se il nostro tempo comune non sia solo un enorme contorno di quello che lui è veramente. Ma poi mi guarda, scodinzola, e così facendo permuta il mio oblio.

Prima di Ugo, con Paola, avevo un altro cane, Cerbero. Lo avevo preso che non aveva neanche due mesi, da un mio amico allevatore. Un pastore della Beauce o Beauceron, razza molto diffusa in Francia e in altri paesi del mondo, quasi sconosciuta in Italia. Lo portai a casa, in mansarda, era più pelo che corpo, faceva pipì ogni tre minuti e leccava e mordeva qualsiasi cosa gli passasse a qualche centimetro dal muso. Paola arrivò e iniziò a dire le tipiche frasi da donna tendente alla madre. Dal: “ommioddio che bello fatti baciare” a “vieni qui, vieni qui, ti prendo in braccio”, ma lo faceva in maniera non forzata, non fastidiosa. Io dovevo andare a lavorare, cercai di dirle di non farlo salire sul letto, se avesse preso l’abitudine subito non sarebbe più andata via, e di cercare di fargli capire, da subito, che il fatto di fare sempre pipì a casa, non era propriamente una cosa bella da fare.

Al mio ritorno vidi che Paola aveva ovviato perfettamente al farlo salire sul letto, era lei a dormire nella sua cuccia, con Cerbero in braccio e senza null’altro da volere. Sono quelle immagini inenarrabili, che quando le vedi provi qualcosa, che quando lo racconti sembra un’altra cosa, da poetico a patetico nello spazio di qualche parola.

Oggi pomeriggio ho un appuntamento per un lavoro, un’inserzione su un giornale richiedeva la figura di una persona per seguire un blog di scrittura. Solitamente questo genere di richiesta sfocia con un lavoro noioso e, il più delle volte, non pagato. “E’ una buona occasione per farsi conoscere”, dicono. E lo dicono persone che sono ancor meno conosciute di te, che aprono siti senza capire nulla di letteratura o di scrittura, tenendoli in vita fino a quando capiscono che forse passando dalla critica alla vendita di mozzarelle in Giappone potrebbero ottenere un qualche guadagno. Il vantaggio è che, quando pagano, domandano solo la carta di identità per emettere un assegno.