Sunday, February 27, 2011

Preperation H For Waist Measurement

Michael Cunningham - On the edge of the night, Bompiani, trans. Andrea Silvestri



Parte piano, l'ultimo romanzo di Cunningham. Parte piano, con scivoloni in italiano, parte che ti dici che non vuoi leggerlo alla fin fine, parte che ti chiedi dove sia finito l'autore di Le ore , parte che dici letto uno degli altri, letti tutti.

Poi però, verso la fine, arriva il momento in cui decolla. E capisci che tutto quello che c'è stato prima è necessario per farlo decollare.

Una coppia di quarantenni vive in Soho. Peter is a gallery owner, Rebecca worked for a magazine. They have a great daughter who lives in Boston, but it is the opposite of what they expected for their lives. He left the university and is the bartender, living with a woman, is full of resentment against them and has yet to find their own way. In their life is more of a regret, like almost everything else. A

upsetting the plans get the younger brother of her, came after many years in the family, problems with drug addiction but risaputi new projects that should in theory help to overcome these problems.

From then do not read if you do not know how it ends. Inadvertently

Peter discovers that his brother's wife has begun to do. It turns out the same time a sudden attraction to him. Within a few hours, by asking how to say it to his wife, is embroiled in an affair that will be tempted to send all his life in order to follow a need for youth, freedom, new opportunities, sponge wipe the slate of life to start over from scratch.

And when Rebecca tells him the same thing, the same feelings that he believed to be the only one to try, you will realize that the loneliness is still there, and how they are not necessarily new plans to give new perspectives, but rather the ability and courage (of which give evidence) to take what you have.

At most of the night is a book that - taking his cue from the work of the protagonist - seems to linger a bit 'too much on considerations of the art market and art as such, but it is not perhaps insignificant details that often seems to lose, but losing sight of the very essence of life?

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