Transfixion E-Book

Francesca Mazzucato

• Herausgeber: Francesca Mazzucato
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

" A direct immersion, intense, at times almost violent in contemporary reality and its precarious condition .. the pain of writing and creation are intertwined with the pain of the body of the protagonist " Stefania Battistini, italian journalist, Il Giorno about Francesca Mazzucato " Mazzucato has taken a quantum jump...her writings takes a new shape, full-bodied, hearty. Able to name, without reticence or turns of phrase, often brutal and totally explicit. A plastic language that adheres to the contours of things, concrete and flat. A mature language. Without rhetoric. No games. No indulgences. A language full of awareness. " Fiorenza Aste, writer, critic The transfixion, that sorrow needed. In body and mind.I am planning to come. I remember last year and I write you an email. I am still ill. Your mark, forever, in every gesture, every decision, every thought, next to me during every trip. Nothing to do. Meeting you was a violent assault, an urgency.You're part of my most intimate memories.I feel your absence on the skin and inside, between the scapula and the heart.We know the dark side of a passion the indelible impression. Here is the old pain you touched, the "we" which was and still lives. Francesca Mazzucato, considered the most famous erotic-chic Italian author, explores with courage and a literary intense language the possibility of a narrative on contemporary intimacy renewing the traditional words of eroticism, surprising, and wrapping the reader offering a story "with no escape" Translated by the author.

Leseprobe

TRANSFIXION

Francesca Mazzucato

The snow brings me to winter time, calling me back from this intangible and indefinable wich sorrounds me for some days. Just to write you that I miss your body, your sex, your lips, you [so much]. I’ll be back, there, where you are, where you live. In February. It is not far. Maybe fourteen days, maybe less. I make dreams which melt together different feelings in different shapes and colors [pastel and gray, foam, lips, skin, body fluids]. I have no reason to come back but my desire for you is lancinating [Obsession? Love? A matter of nuances]

I remember last year, the period when there was a “we”, we two together, a feeling engraved in my flesh, in my body. You loved my body, you wrote me about your dreams about my sex, about my mouth. A “we” made by love words remained lifeless old posts.

[My wound has never healed completely] I can not avoid the reappearance of those memories, the incessant digging in the deepest part of me. You did it very well, you know. I am writing an email.

February 2011, do you remember? It was magical and wonderful. Now I can not reach your elsewhere. Or if I reach it, you resist, delet all traces.

You are capable. I do not. I can not and do not want, I do not concede this advantage at the time. There was something soft and warm that we shared, after all, we shared fragments of eternity, and something infinitely powerful. I took care of those fragments. I still do. I keep them with me, they stay fixed in my mind.Precious, I do not disperse them in oblivion. I know, it wasn’t all easy, there was pain, there where cuts.There was our need, our magnificent and obscene carnal urgency

The rest was transfixion.