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Yehiel De-Nur 7 scrittore polacco. Michele Marzulli 34 poeta, pittore e scrittore italiano.

Le botteghe color cannella. Tutti i racconti, i saggi e i disegni : Bruno Schulz :

That would be genuine maturity. Oh, those aged mornings, as yellow as parchment, sweet with wisdom, like late evenings. Frasi di Bruno Schulz.

Nato da una famiglia di ebrei della Galizia, cannellq in Austria, oggi in Ucraina. Henryk Sienkiewicz 11 scrittore e giornalista polacco. Francis Picabia 6 pittore e scrittore francese. Those distended rag dolls of burdocks bulged there like peasant women sitting around half-devoured by their own crazy skirts.

Ricopre tutto senza discernimento, confonde il senso con il nonsenso, eternamente buffona, finta tonta, di una leggerezza senza limiti.

Le Botteghe Color Cannella | BUNCH Records

Andrea De Carlo 67 scrittore italiano. People go about stupefied by the light, their eyes closed, exploding inwardly with rockets, Roman candles and powder-kegs. The horizon grows rotund, beautiful, and full of azure, like a glass ball in a garden with its miniature and illuminated panorama of the world, in a canneella ordered composition, above which the clouds are arranged, its conclusive toppings, unfolding in a long row like rouleaux of golden medals, or peals botetghe bells combining in rosy litanies.

But today, clad in armour, I mock your tickling, by which you once drove one helpless to despair. The Alexandrine epoch of the year, gathering into its enormous libraries all the bottegne wisdom of the three hundred and sixty-five days of the solar cycle!

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Like late begotten children, it lags behind in its development, a hunchback month, a half-wilted offshoot, and more conjectured than real. Anniversari di oggi Giovanni Pascoli 87 poeta italiano – It was the incomprehensibility that could not be contained within their lives, a cajnella and obsessive caprice, their ill-judged and blind obstinacy.

I understood why those animals were disposed to ill-judged and wild panic, to startled frenzy.

Autori simili Andrzej Stasiuk 1. Wrapped up in the precision and meticulousness of their bodies, they knew neither deviation nor error. One began to cut them with blunt knives without colir, with a lazy indifference.

Ettore Sottsass 98 architetto e designer italiano – Behind each gesture, each movement, we like to see its exertion, its torpor, its sweet ursinality. Marshall McLuhan 92 sociologo canadese – We are simply rapt by it, entranced by the cheapness, the paltriness, the tawdriness of the material.

We give precedence to junk. Here are the great incubators of stories, storyteller factories, misty kilns of fables and fairytales. Their perfection was alarming. But later, toward evening, that hurricane fire of light softens.

Francesco Alberoni 45 sociologo, giornalista e scrittore italiano Herded into their mania, they could not extricate themselves from the knot of those horns, and so, lowering their heads, they looked out sadly cannflla wildly from between them as if trying to find a pathway through their branches. A threadbare and patchy, too-short mantle of snow was spread over the reddened earth.

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But a moment later, cast out to the edge, to the surface, they yawned in their nihility, disappointed and without illusions. Oh, the autumnal day, that old jester-librarian clambering up ladders in his slipped-down dressing gown, sampling the preserves of all ages and cultures!

Always and everywhere, you have thwarted my actions with your outbursts of mindless animosity.

Il pensionato (in Le botteghe color cannella)

They sank for a moment, far into themselves, to the bottom of their being; they froze in their soft fur and grew menacingly and ceremoniously serious, and their eyes grew as round as moons, soaking up the view into their fiery craters. There, it had assumed its wild, incalculable, and incredible shape, twisted into a fantastical arabesque, invisible to their eyes, but dreadful nonetheless, the unknown numeral under whose menace they lived.

One must interpret the flights of those birds Oh, those cunningly smiling mornings, like shrewd palimpsests, many-layered like old, yellowed books. It was too meagre for the many roofs, which remained black or rust coloured, shingled roofs like arks and thatched cottages, concealing within them the smoke-blackened expanses of attics—charred-black cathedrals bristling with ribs of rafters, purlins and joists, dark lungs of the winter gales.

Here are endless infernos, those hopeless Ossianic expanses, those lamentable Nibelungs.

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