The Great Wall of China - On walls in general

(Continued from: The Great Wall of China - A short Introduction)

Walls and wall building have played a very important role in Chinese culture. These people, from the dim mists of prehistory have been wall-conscious; from the Neolithic period – when ramparts of pounded earth were used - till the Communist Revolution, walls were an essential part of any village. Not only towns, villages, the houses and the temples within these cities were somehow walled, but also the houses had no windows overlooking the street, thus giving the feeling of wandering around a huge maze. The name for “city” in Chinese (ch’eng) means wall, and over these walled cities, villages, houses and temples presides the god of walls and mounts[1], whose duties were, and still are to protect and be responsible for the welfare of its inhabitants. Thus a great and extremely laborious task such as constructing a wall, which was supposed to run throughout the country, must not have seemed such an absurdity.

However, it is indeed a common mistake to perceive the Great Wall as a single architectural structure, and it would also be erroneous to assume that it was built during a single dynasty. For the building of the wall spanned the various dynasties, and each of these dynasties somehow contributed to the refurbishing and the construction of a wall, whose foundations had been laid many centuries ago. It is during the fourth and third century B.C. that each Warring State started building walls to protect their kingdoms, both against one another and against the northern nomads. Especially three of these states: the Ch’in, the Chao and the Yen, corresponding respectively to the modern provinces of Shensi, Shanzi and Hopei, over and above building walls that surrounded their kingdoms, laid also the foundations on which Ch’in Shih Huang Di would build his first continuous Great Wall. (To be continued...)

[1] Peter Lum, The Purple Barrier The Story of the Great Wall of China, Robert Hale Limited, London, 1960, p. 17.

Histoire du géologue rouge (conte océanique)

Il était une fois un géologue qui habitait l’Ecole Polytechnique. Comme il buvait beaucoup de bières, son nez était devenu tout rouge et ses camarades l’appelaient «le géologue rouge». Et lui, il n’aimait pas du tout ça.

Alors il prit son marteau, sa perceuse à paléomag, une caisse de bières et il partit pour l’Equateur à bord d’une barquette. Mais au beau milieu de l’Atlantique, la perceuse se mit inopinément en marche: elle perça un trou dans la coque et la barquette sombra au fond de l’océan avec le géologue rouge, ses instruments et les bières.

Notre héros pleurait à chaudes larmes, quand soudain il sentit quelque chose lui chatouiller les doigts de pieds.
-Qui va là!
-C’est moi, lui répondit une voix fluette, la petite argile rouge…
Et en effet, il s’agissait d’un banc d’argile rouge. Emu par cette homonymie, le géologue rouge se prit d’une grande affection pour le gentil sédiment.
-Enchanté de faire ta connaissance, dit-il. Allez, prends une bière!
-Et toi, prends une smectite ferrifère! Veux-tu m’aider à chercher ma grand-mère?
-D’accord!
Et main dans la main, ils partirent à sa recherche.

La grand-mère de la petite argile rouge, c’était bien entendu la plaine abyssale. Seulement, à force de bières et de smectites, nos deux amis étaient tellement pétés qu’ils traversèrent toute la grand-mère sans même s’en apercevoir. Et voilà que bing! Ils se cognèrent la tête contre une énorme masse sombre et le géologue rouge s’écroula évanoui.
-Ouille! fit l’énorme masse sombre.
-Pardon, rougit la petite argile rouge, nous sommes perdus…pourriez-vous me dire où habite ma grand-mère?
-Mais c’est moi ta grand-mère!
Pauvre petite argile rouge! Elle ne pouvait pas se douter que son interlocutrice était en réalité la terreur des fonds océaniques, l’abominable et vorace croûte continentale.
-Mais, grand-mère, dit la petite argile rouge, que tes sédiments sont étranges!
-C’est le plaisir de te voir qui m’a altérée!
-Et puis je t’imaginais plus plate…
-C’est le bonheur qui m’a soulevée!
-Et puis il me semble que…
-Pas tant d’histoires, dans mes bras mon petit!
Et l’énorme masse noire se précipita sur la petite argile rouge et la subducta en une seule bouchée.

C’est alors que notre géologue rouge, reprenant ses esprits, comprit qu’il devait à tout prix sauver sa nouvelle amie.
-Prodigieux!, s’écria-t-il, voilà des années que je suis géologue et jamais je ne m’étais aperçu que les croûtes océaniques savaient parler (en réalité il le savait très bien, vous pensez…un géologue de l’Ecole Polytechnique!). Si tu chantais aussi, quel scoop pour le monde scientifique!
La croûte continentale, qui était coquette, ouvrit une large faille et se mit à chanter à tue-tête, laissant échapper sa proie.
-Sachez, madame, dit notre héros d’un ton narquois, que tout géologue vit aux dépens de la croûte qui l’écoute…
Et sans demander son reste, il prit la petite argile rouge dans ses bras, remonta la croûte continentale, sortit de l’océan et s’en alla en Equateur.

Une fois arrivé, il attrapa tellement de coups de soleil qu’on ne remarquait plus du tout son nez rouge. Il vécut donc très heureux avec la petite argile rouge et plus tard, ayant appris l’art de la poterie chez les Indiens Quechua, il en fit une superbe chope à bière.

LA FAMA CHE LA VOSTRA CASA ONORA

Da Giovedì 25 a Sabato 27 Maggio 2006 a Pontremoli e a Mulazzo il
Comune di Pontremoli Assessorato alla cultura e l'Università degli Studi di Verona Master STEdAL organizzano una serie di incontri dal titolo "La fama che la vostra casa onora, La Lunigiana e i Malaspina nella biografia e nell’opera di Dante Alighieri a 700 anni dal soggiorno lunigianese".

Aguzza qui, lettor, ben li occhi al vero,
ché 'l velo è ora ben tanto sottile,
certo che 'l trapassar dentro è leggero.

Breaking News.

Brazil, A shoal of chubby piranhas has been put on a strict vegan diet. The deprived fishes, which used to devour a whole pig in minutes, are now being served only crumbled tofu, soybeans and peanut butter at a piranha farm near Macapá after they became plump and heavy. The piranhas, a local delicacy, will have to face a gruelling two-week of training consisting of field length sprints, push ups and crunches, short marathons, specific position drills and sessions of yoga stretching exercises in order to regain a healthy shape. ‘This not only will reduce the risk of heart disease and early piranha death, but it will also help them to get back their distinguished rich flavour’ said, Achuchi da Conceição, the piranhas’ personal trainer. ‘Our toothy friends, you know, have to be fit! there are no buts or ifs, that’s the end of the story! And I will make sure that they return lean and tasty to the pleasure of their consumers,’ he added. A young piranha when asked how he felt about his sorry situation, stated firmly while eagerly sucking on his last cigarette, that he would rather shove a toucan up his own arse (there is great animosity between the two), than to go through all this ‘healthy-getting-fit-business.’
From the banks of the Amazon River.

Todd O'Dwyer, Assorted-Nonsense Press, Macapá.

Ps. For those whose taste buds have been tickled, here’s a recipe for a mouth-watering soupe aux piranha.

600 gr. whole piranha
5 piranhas’ heads (for the stock)
3½ tablespoon of olive oil
3 small shallots, quartered
1 leek, white part only, chopped
Some green vegetables of your choice in season
2 carrots, peeled and diced
2 yams, peeled and cut up
Garlic clove chopped
Sea salt and pepper
2 small chillies chopped
1 ginger root, coarsely chopped
1 sliced lemon

Boil the whole fish in the vegetable and piranhas’ heads stock together with the spices and with half of the coarsely chopped ginger. Heat the oil in large saucepan and cook the shallots for 3 minutes, then add the leek, carrots, garlic clove, chillies and the green vegetables. Cook for a further 3 minutes. Then add the vegetables, sea salt and pepper into the boiling pot and simmer for 30 minutes. Remove bones and the large fins from the piranha. Slice the lemon as garnish and add the rest of the freshly chopped ginger. Leave the soup to cool slightly, serve hot, accompanied with fried bred. Remember, the piranhas’ heads are an aphrodisiac and are often served separately. The soup can also be made entirely from piranha heads if desired…

The Great Wall of China - A short Introduction

Tracing the history of the Great Wall of China, while trying to write in an objective way, sine ira ac studio, is far from easy. One who tries to take up this knotty and tricky task will soon realise that they have been sucked into the numerous and colourful legends that surround the building of the Wall; and will also be swept aside by the long and complicated flow of Chinese history. For history and legends walk hand--in-hand in Chinese culture, and

Until fairly recently the full-bodied legends of Chinese traditions were accepted as historical truth by the average Chinese. Mythology and history were totally blurred and it is still a matter of dispute as to where one ends and the other begins. There has never been a great quest for objectivity and scientific fact in the oriental tradition such as in the west. Reality and irreality are but variants of the same thing, one should never be sure of anything. [1]

Hence, incorporating legends and history together, in this work I shall try to describe the reason, or better the reasons, for the construction of the Wall, the benefits of its construction to its country, the farming-garrison, and especially its unique system of communication. (To be continued…)

[1] Jonathan Fryer, The Great Wall of China, New English Library, London, 1975, p.19.

Kafkarroll

Aux gens du Tribunal Joseph a déclaré,
«Je ne suis pas coupable, vous me cassez les pieds!
Ma conscience est tranquille, Ô gens du Tribunal,
Vous pouvez vérifier, je n’ai rien fait de mal!»

Qu’on emplisse son verre de purée de crapaud!
Qu’on repeigne en vert pâle le bois de l’échafaud!
Qu’on le fasse bouillir avec des p’tits oignons,
Qu’on le condamne à trois fois trente ans de prison!

«Ô gens du Tribunal!», dit-il, «quelle manie,
De vouloir à tout prix m’empoisonner la vie!
Il y a tant de brigands, d’infâmes et de goujats,
Mais c’est moi, Joseph K., que vous montrez du doigt!»

Qu’on emplisse son verre de cafards et de boue,
Bottons-lui bien les fesses et tranchons-lui le cou!
Et pour que le supplice nous semble suffisant,
Il durera trois fois quatre-vingt-dix-neuf ans!

A tre voci

Era un afoso pomeriggio d’estate. Il signor G. comprò delle calze di lana. Ricominciamo. Era un afoso pomeriggio d’estate e il signor G. era ubriaco. Il signor G. comprò delle calze di lana, quindi non era estate. Era talmente sbronzo che si comprò delle calze di lana in estate. Infatti era inverno, e faceva un freddo cane.
Il signor G. era povero, poverissimo. Per questo si ubriacava sempre e poi faceva cose pazzesche. Mai avrebbe speso in whisky i soldi che aveva risparmiato per le calze. Tornando dal negozio, vide persino un elefante rosa. Tornando dal negozio il signor G. tremava dal freddo, ansioso di rientrare in casa. Ma non poteva: un elefante rosa gli bloccava la strada. Ma perchè rosa? Era ubriaco no?
Banalità! L’elefante rosa era un camion del circo a forma di elefante rosa, ma dentro c’era un elefante grigio, normalissimo. Morto, però. Zitto, tu! Lasciamo perdere l’elefante rosa.
Tornò a casa e guardò dalla finestra la neve scendere a fiocchi sulla città. Ma cosa sto dicendo?! Tornò a casa e aprì la seconda bottiglia di whisky della giornata. Ma cosa sto dicendo?! Tornò a casa e aprì la seconda bottiglia di whisky della giornata. Tornò a casa e guardò dalla finestra la neve scendere a fiocchi sulla città. Si sentì meglio. Si sentiva triste. Fine.
No, come fine? E l’elefante? Era ubriaco! No ma l’elefante? Allora continuiamo. Il signor G. rivide, come in un sogno, l’elefante. Quell’elefante era morto per colpa sua. Come per colpa sua? Non lasciarti sconcentrare!
Il signor G. era stato veterinario in un circo, ma aveva dato le dimissioni. Il signor G. aveva guardato «Dumbo» in TV. Forse era per quello che vedeva sempre elefanti, da ubriaco. Che bello, «Dumbo» è il mio cartone preferito! Ma di certo NON era il cartone preferito del signor G. Lui detestava il circo, gli animali e Walt Disney. Era stato suo padre, un fanatico di «Dumbo», che lo aveva costretto a studiare veterinaria esotica. Un momento...
Il signor G. adorava «Dumbo» e aveva sempre sognato di diventare veterinario. Ma non aveva potuto. Per questo beveva. Un mese prima, l’elefante del circo si era ammalato, ma il signor G. aveva rifiutato di curarlo. Quell’elefante gli stava antipatico. Un momento… E ora l’elefante era morto. Il suo sogno di bambino era morto. Ma che storia è questa?!
Una storia che ho inventato. La mia autobiografia. E tu chi sei?
Io sono il signor G., e sognavo di diventare veterinario esotico. Anche mio figlio si chiama signor G e l’ho costretto a studiare veterinaria. Però non bevo mica. Papà! Ma allora tu sei un mio personaggio! Papà! Figlio mio! E ora cosa fai nella vita? Volevo scrivere ma non ho avuto successo, penso che tornerò a lavorare nel circo. E tu? Volevo diventare veterinario ma non ho avuto successo. Allora faccio il mediatore nelle storie a tre voci. Però non bevo mica.
A-ha! E allora perchè il signor G. ha comprato le calze di lana, se non beveva? Era inverno, rompicoglioni! Ma papà… Estate! Figliuolo... Sì! No! Fine.
Papà...
Fine.
Figliuolo...
Fine.
Fine.
Fine.

Walking down the street.

While walking down on an ordinary street, from an ordinary job, to an ordinary house, I thought for once to do something a little bit more extraordinary, thus I decided to cut through the park. In spring parks in this area are filled with the rich odour of freshly cut grass, and when the light wind stirs amidst the trees, there comes the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn… (but lets not divert from what I actually want to tell you).

So, as I was cutting through the park, I heard a noise that, more or less, sounded like a woman tenderly moaning followed by a man gruffly bellowing. Very peculiar indeed, I thought and I turned my steps towards it. There they were the culprits: a couple was sitting on a bench, with their backs facing me.

Having satisfied my curiosity I continued on my leisurely stroll through the park, following the footpath, away from the couple, up a small hill, round a small pond, back down the small hill, and again towards the couple (nope, my curiosity was not satisfied at all, for I had seen something awkward that it did not fit).

As I was approaching them, I could see that they were entangled in a passionate embrace, kissing each other’s faces off, the man’s hand inside the front of her blouse, caressing her, as a geek would feverishly stroke his keyboard.

They, of course, stopped abruptly when they saw me coming, both seemed flustered, not to say annoyed. As I walked away, however, I thought about what I had just witnessed. What amused me the most was not the fact that they were performing in a public place and in broad daylight (for I am quite in favour of flexing limbs in the cool breeze and stretching tendons caressed by soothing winds) but rather the fact that the girl was wearing a Muslim headscarf…

I mean, what’s the point? Why bother? Why people don’t care and recognise the sanctity of religious symbols? Stop me! Oh well… here I am again, walking down on an ordinary park, to an ordinary house, with an ordinary bitter taste in my mouth…

Supereroe

Gentile donzella in periglio,

Io durante il uichend non lavoro!
Anche noi supereroi abbiamo una vita, cosa crede che ci faccia piacere metterci i pantacollant, che ci fanno venire l'irritazione, e correre a destra e a manca per salvare cani, gatti e umani in pericolo?! Ma veramente pensa che non abbiamo niente di meglio da fare! Voi umani... tsié... appena vi spezzate un'unghia o vi tagliate facendovi la barba, subito: signor supereroe aiuto!
E per dirindindina figlia mia! Eh no! Io ci ho moglie e venti figli, il divorzio incombe tra capo e collo e anche lei, quella santa donna di mia moglie, ha tutte le ragioni...
Ma lo sa che l'altra sera ero lì, peli al vento e culo in aria (in una delle mie migliori performance: quasi oltre i 40 secondi) che le interpretavo un liscio da balera romagnola (uno due cha-cha-cha) e borda di nuovo, parte la cryptoradio: “Zara-3, Zara-3, Via Vittorio Emanuele 10, in 5 minuti!” E porca patonzola! manco fossi un tassista... m’è toccato concludere il tutto a tempo cavalcata delle valchirie, e via di corsa a salvare la vecchiettina sbavante che aveva perso la dentiera in culo al suo san bernardo... Poverina anche lei, doveva fare il clistere al cane e non si era messa gli occhiali, così invece del boccione di liquido gliceroidale ha preso la vaschetta con la dentiera e ssshccioppettteplok... su per l’ano... mo’ valla a ritrovare quella benedetta dentiera.
Ecco, come ben vede la mia vita e' fatta un po’ di merda per mettergliela proprio papale, papale. E allora guardi anche lei con quel suo bel tanghino estivo, non dico che non sia solleticante ma sa cosa le dico? NO! NO! E poi NO! Io il uichend NON L-A-V-O-R-O-!!! ha capito!?!
Con osservanza,
il Supereroe.

Il taxi

Della tassista si vede solo la nuca: lunga coda castana, berretto da chauffeur. Sta’ a vedere che non ha faccia?
Sarebbe bello che ne avesse una, per sberlarla.
Mancano quattro minuti all’appuntamento.

Il taxi avanza tra due file di case bianche. Sarà qui? Le chiedo di fermarsi.
«Per favore può aspettarmi?»
Appena sceso dal taxi non sono più sicuro. Anzi per niente, io queste case bianche non le ho mai viste, non è qui l’appuntamento, l’appuntamento non è qui e il tassametro va.

Ripartiamo ma già non so più dov’era l’appuntamento, già non so più cos’era l’appuntamento, queste case bianche sono tutte uguali, le riconosco e non le riconosco, non ho più voglia di guardarle. Guardo solo due cose, il tassametro e l’orologio, l’orologio e il tassametro. Tre minuti, due, uno.

E quando indicheranno che non ci sono più soldi, che non c’è più tempo, non resterà altro da fare che scendere dal taxi, imboccare un viale qualunque e entrare in una casa bianca, qualunque. Bianca pure l’erba, bianco il cielo.

Wishful thinking

There was a ruler of men. His harem was packed full of voluptuously luscious females. Females with eyes, green as the sea in tempest, lusting for him only, and what he didn’t get up to with them isn’t worth mentioning. Yet what has come down the ages to us is not how he satiated his barbarous appetite for pleasure, nor we know about his nights cavorting in passionate dances and sensual embraces, but his yearning for making love to the maiden nymph of Mount Sylph, and that is known to every soul tethered by desire. But where can we find that very place where the tryst took place? Where is the nymph’s abode? The legend says the nymph turned into a floating cloud in the morning, and into drifting rain at dusk: how can we account for that? Are there any signs we can trace, any facts we can set out? Or was all an illusion? For the force of an illusion is a thousand times that of fact; and that is why that story lives on.

Clickety-click

The witch carries iron scissors and a basket full of hair. Her hair grows so fast she must cut it constantly, then throw it in the basket by bunches. Clickety-click, clickety-click: you can hear her iron scissors as she wanders through the corridors of the hotel, looking for left-alone children (their parents went to the dining room for a quiet, romantic evening).

As soon as she sniffs a lonely child through the keyhole, she enters the room with her iron scissors and her terrible laugh. To save his own skin, the child must throw anything (and I really mean anything) at her basket: the bedside lamp, a book, chocolate wrappings, the hotel’s menu, his dirty socks, whatever. That’s the only way to keep her away. So if you want a piece of advice, always keep your hotel room untidy and never trust a cleaning woman: they have a deal with the witch.

If the child manages to knock down her basket, the witch will kneel on the floor to collect her hair, moaning and whimpering and no longer paying attention to him. Otherwise…
Clickety-click, clickety-click.
When returning from dinner, the parents find a little paper fellow lying on the child’s bed. Maybe they will notice, maybe they won’t. Usually they don’t.
They will feed him, read stories to him, take him to the movies. Once back from vacation, the little paper fellow will go to school, play with his friends and do his homework like any other child.

The world is filled with such paper fellows, and nobody usually notices. They are afraid of fire and scissors, but these are common fears and of hardly any help to recognize them. They also dislike being touched or hugged or pushed, as the merest contact would make them fly away. Little paper fellows are uncanny and disgusting.

I have been studying them for ages. When I have collected sufficient proof, I shall publish a big, big book to explain how to recognize them, and this will be the end of the little paper fellows. Then I’ll go hunting for the witch. I spent the last years living in hotel rooms, because the phenomenon is easier to study when fresh. Great missions demand great sacrifices.

I saw one the other day. There I was, lying on my deckchair, when all of a sudden the wind brought a nauseating stench of paper (rottenchestnutrottenchestnut). I looked up and I saw it, pretending to swing from a tree branch. But I am no fool: I saw at once it was actually clinging to the branch so the wind wouldn’t take it away. The sunset light was shining through its small dangling body.

Oh you little scum, you little bidimensional waste, you just wait and see. I followed it from a distance, waiting for its parents to leave it alone. And yesterday night, when they went to dinner, I entered its room with a big, big laugh.

I took my iron scissors and my hair started growing. Clickety-click.

Incazzatura - escursione speleologica

Con l’ammonticchiarsi di minuscoli dettagli sale l’incazzatura, quasi una speranza.

All’inizio non provi che una vaga impressione di incazzevolnezza, subito cortocircuitata: riconsideri i dettagli incazzogeni uno ad uno, ne scarti un paio, altri non resistono al cross-examining. Magari è colpa tua, sei troppo suscettibile? Incalzata dai dubbi fai avanti e indietro tra una camera e l’altra, trascinandoti cuscino e piumone. E poi le conseguenze e poi e poi…

Ma si aggiungono altri dettagli, polverizzando ogni dubbio, confermando la promessa: tra poco ti incazzerai!
E finalmente, il vaso trabocca (cinque minuti di troppo, una parola fuori luogo): in una rivelazione godereccia capisci che si, hai tutto il diritto di incazzarti!
Ricapitoli con voluttà i dettagli incazzogeni, esaminandoli stavolta come un tutto che assume un senso sempre più preciso.

Preoccupante a che punto l’identificarci come vittima di un torto ci faccia sentire in armonia con noi stessi, forti della decisione di prendere la propria difesa. Ma questo è irrilevante, ormai sei ben al di là di tali considerazioni. Non sei più donna ma belva, e aspetti una cosa sola: che capiti sotto tiro l’oggetto della tua giusta ira.

Non so a cos’altro paragonare l’attuale momento dell’esplosione se non all’orgasmo: le parole escono a raffica, manca il fiato, il corpo è teso, tremi… Sei nel contempo sconvolta e completamente lucida, ma come una persona in trance, una lucidità da stato secondo. E anche se non lo ammetterai mai, desideri solo rimanere su questo treno, che la tensione non si sgonfi ma al contrario aumenti e aumenti. Non gridiamo forse tutti “no” al culmine del piacere?

Non ho dubbi sul fatto che la mia arrabbiatura fosse giustificata, ma queste righe sono forse un mea culpa: quello che ho provato sfiorava l’estasi. Da notare che l’indomani ero di umore risolutamente ameno.

Uno spaccato di vita quotidiana: il caffè

Sveglia la mattina presto... troppo presto! Bocca impastata, corpo sudato, nottata passata con gli amici, tante cose son successe... ma poche ricordo: serata a base di cannellini, cannoli e cannoni...
Oddio! Le lezioni che incombono! Son già in ritardo! L’unico modo per rimanere vigile, attento e non addormentarmi durante le lezioni, che peraltro si svolgono in classi strapiene, maleodoranti e fragorose (fatto regolare per le università italiane), è un caffè da Mario.
Eh già... il caffè in Italia è qualcosa di più che in altri paesi, parte imprescindibile della cultura italiana, colonna portante della giornata di uno studente, di un lavoratore, ma anche di un semplice pensionato che tra un grappino e una partitina a carte, un caffè se lo sorseggia sempre con piacere.
L’intera giornata (e non esagero) si svolge attorno ai vari e diversi caffè: da quelli fuggevoli, bevuti di corsa a quelli assaporati lentamente mentre seduti intorno ad un tavolino gremito d’amici, distratto dalle voci familiari e dalle conversazioni piacevoli.
Ma quale caffè prendere? Anche questo è un dilemma non da poco: espresso, ristretto, macchiato, marocchino o veneziano (che poi, quest'ultimi due, sono più o meno la stessa cosa) e via e via dicendo...
Per la scelta degli orari invece non ci son dilemmi, come si suol dire: e più te lo mandi giù e più ti tira su! Naturalmente ci sono quelli obbligatori (almeno per me): quello della mattina a colazione, trangugiato di fretta con la sigaretta mezza fumata, poi quello di metà mattinata, seduto con gli amici che è simile a quello dopo pranzo dove però la seduta e la chiacchierata si dilungano, ancora un altro a metà pomeriggio, tanto per darsi una ricarica e alla fine quello tranquillo dopo cena, con la giornata oramai finita, giusto mentre si riassumono gli eventi accaduti e si pianificano quelli della serata che si concluderanno, molto probabilmente, con il caffè della prima colazione. Insomma, un circolo vizioso che gira intorno ad uno dei piaceri della vita: il caffè italiano!

A tes fesses - A Sonnet

J’aime (comme toi) la forme de la planète Terre,
Les ballons de football, les igloos, les melons,
Le billard, les olives et puis les mongolfières,
Les coupoles d’église et tout ce qui est rond.

Certains globes on les mord, d’autres sont un loisir,
Certains sont un refuge, d’autres nous font voler,
Mais il n’y a que les tiens qui sachent réunir
Ces multiples emplois: ce sont mes préférés.

Parfois je les agrippe à deux mains; mais, farouche,
Je ne veux pas qu’une autre partage ce régal
Car je suis très jalouse, et gare à qui les touche!

Parfois, en les voyant, je deviens cannibale:
Si fermes, si charnus! L’eau me vient à la bouche,
Et j’enfonce mes dents dans tes deux fesses pâles.

Daniel the Spaniel - A tribute to Dr.Seuss

Daniel The spaniel Sips soup on his panel, Sips soup with his spoon from his pot. When his panel is spinned, Daniel’s spicy soup’s spilled, Which spots him with spicy-soup spots. Supper’s spoiled! Daniel’s soiled With the soup he has boiled! Spooky spleen left the spaniel quite speechless... But despite his despair he then spotted and stared at a spider that sprawled on a spinach. “Spider sweet! – spoke the pup- Would you pass me some soap and a spare sponge, perhaps? Do be nice!” But the spider was anal And spat on the spaniel, Then spewed in his pot with despise. “Spurious Spider!” – he said with this spade you’ll be spayed! I shall splatter your spawn! And your spine I shall split with a spanner (to teach you some manners), and I’ll piss on that spinach of thine!”. The spider’s upset, The spinach’s all wet, And dear Daniel, to get some respite, Spent all spring in a Spa With his pals and his Pa, Sipping shots of pastis with some sprite.

Franz Kafka's Before the Law

Kafka used to laugh when reading his stories to friends. If you have ever read Kafka, then this may sound surprising… Yet, what you do not understand it is funny, and what you do not understand it is terrible. So what is funny it's terrible, and what is terrible it’s funny. That's all the beauty of Nonsense. For nonsense opens up a glimpse of the infinite, it offers intoxicating freedom and brings one into contact with the essence of life and is a source of marvellous comedy and/or dramatic tragedy.

Franz Kafka

Before the Law

Before the law stands a doorkeeper. To this doorkeeper there comes a man from the country and prays for admittance to the Law. But the doorkeeper says that he cannot grant admittance at the moment. The man thinks it over and asks if he will be allowed in later. "It is possible," says the doorkeeper, "but not at the moment." Since the gate stands open as usual, and the doorkeeper steps to one side, the man stoops to peer through the gateway into the interior. Observing that, the doorkeeper laughs and says: "If you are so drawn to it, just try to go in despite my veto. But take note: I am powerful. And I am only the least of the doorkeepers. From hall to hall there is one doorkeeper after another, each more powerful than the last. The third doorkeeper is already so terrible that even I cannot bear to look at him." These are difficulties the man from the country has not expected; the Law, he thinks, should surely be accessible at all times and to everyone, but as he now takes a closer look at the doorkeeper in his fur coat, with his big sharp nose and long thin, black Tartar beard, he decides that it is better to wait until he gets permission to enter. The doorkeeper gives him a stool and lets him sit down at one side of the door. There he sits for days and years. He makes many attempts to be admitted, and wearies the doorkeeper by his importunity. The doorkeeper frequently has little interviews with him, asking him questions about his home and many other things, but the questions are put indifferently, as great lords put them, and always finish with the statement that he cannot be let in yet. The man, who has furnished himself with many things for his journey, sacrifices all he has, however valuable to the doorkeeper. The doorkeeper accepts everything, but always with the remark: "I am only taking it to keep you from thinking you have omitted anything." During these many years the man fixes his attention almost continuously on the doorkeeper. He forgets the other doorkeepers, and this first one seems to him the sole obstacle preventing access to the Law. He curses his bad luck, in his early years boldly and loudly; later, as he grows old, he only grumbles to himself. He becomes childish, and since in his yearlong contemplation of the doorkeeper he has come to know even the fleas in his fur collar, he begs the fleas to help him and to change the doorkeeper's mind. At length his eyesight begins to fail, and he does not know whether the world is darker or whether his eyes are only deceiving him. Yet in his darkness he is now aware of a radiance that streams inextinguishably from the gateway of the Law. Now he has not very long to live. Before he dies, all his experiences in these long years gather themselves in his head to one point, a question he has not yet asked the doorkeeper. He waves him nearer since he can no longer raise his stiffening body. The doorkeeper has to bend low toward him, for the difference in height between them has altered much to the man's disadvantage. "What do you want to know now?" asks the doorkeeper; "you are insatiable." "Everyone strives to reach the Law," says the man, "so how does it happen that for all these many years no one but me has ever begged for admittance?" The doorkeeper recognizes the man has reached his end, and, to let his failing senses catch the words, roars in his ear: "No one else could ever be admitted here, since this gate was made only for you. I am now going to shut it."

Old, seedy, port taverns...

Now, I believe, it's time to shed some light on the title: Why piranha? Why tondeur? Why in French? It is quite simply because it sounded appropriate.
Au piranha tondeur reminds us of those old, seedy, port taverns, always hazy with smoke and filled with a pungent odour of rum alongside the loud cheers of its table companions telling their tales. So if you happened to have just snuck in, then take a seat, have a drink, make yourself comfortable, and by the way, have you heard about…