Liberato was a bit dazed, still could not absorb the cries of the walrus with the reality of the new day. There was a cry, that was true, as was the sudden appearance of Lucio, and the immediate departure, guiding the incoherent sentence: "You and I have to talk later." It is clear that those words had an urge, a necessity if you will, because every day that were in the third of Mary Fioravanti, Liberato, the T. and Lucio had not done nothing more to say, all I had to do there was talk, or at least try, because there was always wants to open his mouth, much less to repeat the string of cliches which had become accustomed. Come to think, he realized that in some ways, the dialogue between them had never pointed beyond a hobby, had never ventured into the souls, and if they had among them, the elders, he had no participation, the words he heard were repeated and Liberato need new words, new stories, new lives, if he wanted was to write (and write), could not comply with little she was wearing, and awareness of how little, admittedly, was what gave him the degree of maturity need not to perish in the attempt, "was aware of his inexperience, his sixteen years that barely covered a tiny chapter in the life of anyone, I could die tomorrow or at the same moment, which sixteen years had been for him a lifetime, but that really does not give greater wisdom, had the years that he and sometimes strong determination, was recognized anxious, too, but on this point had no control, I wanted to write, write and wanted to have a book published long before writing anything, I wanted to be a writer and did not even have a miserable pen or a pair of sheets of paper on which record these things that appear in your mind every time I woke, his life was inexperienced, it is true, but was full of dreams, and dreams recognized an endless source of arguments, but in the background were always the same, at least gave it a mind-boggling variety of ways to narrate it, there was something prophetic also in those dreams, or maybe not such wishes were that he liked to believe them prophecies, be assumed to be a writer and American life that awaited him in Italy would never have found, in Italy could have been a man without worries, without financial hardship, but life, Italy was the land held by his life, his life was in America, South America, where there awaited him life, written to the last point enviable precision, in an ascending scale as drawn by Dante: Liberato was waiting to heaven, what God expected. He wanted to write to God, he knew he knew a writer and a writer, even when recounting the adventures of a cat with boots or a wooden boy who grew his nose, he was writing to God, because I was writing the life but still not writing. The dreams were good, but also expected material life, and his was so low, Lucio and T. I doubled the advantage, they were young, young old, who had more of a story, double life, they should tell him, trust him, but how confident ask themselves if maybe they had none for himself, Lucio wanted talk later, but what was clear there was an urgency, a necessity, like Giovanni, "Lucio also ask him to teach him to read? Or maybe he would apologize for having thrown the book into the ocean? No, Lucio did not seem disposed to humiliation. In short, Lucio wanted to talk and that was something, maybe new words, perhaps a new story that will serve as a source of argument, if anything was certain Liberato, besides being a writer, was that life was there, alive, so he used it, translate it into words and transferred the role, life, lives, yours, the world, the feeling of vastness offered him some comfort: never be without something to say, but somehow so overwhelming, so choked with incommensurability, it noted with the finger of blame to be known in advance, a whistleblower lives; Liberato had wanted not only be a man, but also all men, and then he would have felt at peace, because have also had to be a potter, which would have pleased his father .... but that, as all men would probably not have needed to write.
"Good morning, Liberato," I dreamed or killed someone in the boat?
Giovanni's voice as he finished awakening.
"Good morning, Giovanni, I do not know, I think this is a problem with Don Guido, but perhaps I too have dreamed.
"Maybe we are asleep, still in a dream ... tell me, Liberato," I'll dream of you or your sounds to me? Liberato
smiled. I had read something similar in a hand, though without saying that someone dreamed them both, but the fact that such thinking is out of Giovanni's voice allowed him an excuse for their first self-referential argument. And without doubt ever wrote, if everything was not, indeed, a dream.
"I'll warm coffee.
"How good it would have a glass of milk," said Giovanni. Liberato
had placed the tin pileup on the oil heater and was holding a handle, hand covered with a handkerchief, to avoid the heat of the metal, and suddenly the boat acknowledged receipt of a wave and a stream of liquid just black and still warm, was poured on the floor. Liberato left to clean enchastre pileup, and a new earth shaking gave the rest of the coffee.
- Ah, damn bad luck, "cried the boy. Giovanni
was surprised it was the first time I heard him raise his voice.
"Do not worry, moreover, would not you like a glass of milk? Francisco said that in Spain, the first came up with cows.
- And? We are in the third.
"Come, Liberato, from when the limits of concern to an Italian, do not go out of Italy, perhaps? Come for a glass of milk.
A history, thought Liberato, why not?
Because it was clear that he, not Giovanni, who had to risk back ten yards through the cables of the mast, trying to get one of the crew to see. Why all this was to pass a writer to write? And his father told him that any work that did not involve an abuse for hands could truly be considered a job. If the old B. could see the hands of Liberato, blisters threatening, perhaps had agreed to eat one by one the words. But it was good that the would have said, because ultimately they were words, and words are nurtured dreams of Liberato, even those with bad intentions. He needed life, it is true, experience and action, but also needed the words, because they could write in the paper that now lacks it, that although the wounds were unusual in the hands of a writer, were frequent in his soul, in your mind and heart, entire body, front and back, was a large wound fueled by waiting too long to wait, great hopes for the eager spirit of a writer. Best, old B., better not to see it, because they approve of a child of yours had throughout Italy to steal from the rich milk of Mary Fioravanti.
course this situation, cows, Giovanni proposal, its rapid acceptance, it could set a message, a signal that the target would send for him, Liberato B, the take into account, if you gave him the guts for that. Of course, that was a message: the life he started to shout that I should write about cows did not have to worry about finding a theme, it was: La Vaca. B. Liberato, would the author of The Cow, a great story in poetic prose. I feel excited at the top again and knowing very original, who could come up but him a story where the cow was the center, the character, history? Everything happened as it should occur. What mattered to have lost that book, what mattered reading if he should write. Liberato was a writer, reader, and it was showing life, fate had those things, when someone was a bit lost, or was beginning to doubt, then sent him signals. So the cow, for the top ...
- Eh, Liberato Whispering cried Giovanni, be careful where you put your foot, do not go down.
Liberato, like waking up, looked down and height disliked. The hands began to tremble and the strong will be vanished along with the conceptual clarity that until then had seen his spirit. What was he climbing the pole? Is writing a story or prologue for a safe whack? Porca misery, he said, denying that the sudden immobility was due to cowardice. It was common sense, nothing more, after all, Jules Verne did not have to travel to the moon, and descend to the center of the earth, or twenty thousand leagues navigate underwater to write. Salgari "had been a pirate? No, it was not cowardice, it was common sense. Decided to go down.
- What happened?
"Nothing, I was the desire to drink milk," said Liberato, away briskly.
Giovanni shrugged:
"Me too, is said.
returned to the cabin.
Chapter Ten
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