Who is written? (ALDO NOVELLI)
I started writing at puberty for me same. locked in my little ivory tower, a miserable pension of a city nefasta.Un day I opened the door and left the world and discovered that no one knew me, that the world was huge and alien, then back to my attic and I started writing for the world. Went for a walk, talking to strangers and wrote their stories of failure and unrealistic desires.
Until one day the world came into my room and pushed me outside, then it was not the same world, I had to earn my bread and found men and women who had no bread in his mesa.En that time, beaten and trampled by the world's wild feet, I started writing to change the world, I grabbed a gun loaded with future and went to fight for beautiful and unattainable utopías.Hasta the world with their hits I tore my body, locked in a dark cave and screamed: "stupid idealist lost, we won," then, in that dark hole I started writing to save my own years culo.Después happened to the days when I stopped to look back, I saw the road full of potholes and dirty puddles, the road that it can not be walked again.
Today, with more defeats than love, I write only to the greengrocer on the corner, my friend Andrés.Cada once edited a book, the first thing I take is to Andrés.Él not read poetry, or literature or anything other than the newspaper every morning, says there is everything: novels, drama, love, history, politics and religion, humor and fantasy, beauty and obscenity, life and death and no longer needed, and rightly so. but I still carry my poor librito.Él you open it and read the first poem, if it understands and reads like the second, as is one that does not like, closes the book and place it in the only grocery store shelf biblioteca.Nunca which acts more as open.
not as well read my books. A night of barbecue and trick, crammed and gorged beast of wine, told me secretly that he read a book completely, another put on the shelf after the first explanation is poema.No and neck I'll know for sure, but I feel good about the pact between writer and reader that we desarrollado.Además as he says, his library in a single rack, it is only my books, adding slyly, books the best known poet, the only one who knows.
is for me, is a personal pride that no other writer can darse.Todos my failures are there, and that's my success, unique, unbeatable, compared to all writers and poets of the world!. Therefore
friends and poets, I can tell at this moment I will continue writing until I die, for my friend Andrew, grocer the corner.
/ / aldo luis novelli / poet spic and laburante .- luis
A hug impetuoso.aldo novelli / from the edge of the desert .-
I started writing at puberty for me same. locked in my little ivory tower, a miserable pension of a city nefasta.Un day I opened the door and left the world and discovered that no one knew me, that the world was huge and alien, then back to my attic and I started writing for the world. Went for a walk, talking to strangers and wrote their stories of failure and unrealistic desires.
Until one day the world came into my room and pushed me outside, then it was not the same world, I had to earn my bread and found men and women who had no bread in his mesa.En that time, beaten and trampled by the world's wild feet, I started writing to change the world, I grabbed a gun loaded with future and went to fight for beautiful and unattainable utopías.Hasta the world with their hits I tore my body, locked in a dark cave and screamed: "stupid idealist lost, we won," then, in that dark hole I started writing to save my own years culo.Después happened to the days when I stopped to look back, I saw the road full of potholes and dirty puddles, the road that it can not be walked again.
Today, with more defeats than love, I write only to the greengrocer on the corner, my friend Andrés.Cada once edited a book, the first thing I take is to Andrés.Él not read poetry, or literature or anything other than the newspaper every morning, says there is everything: novels, drama, love, history, politics and religion, humor and fantasy, beauty and obscenity, life and death and no longer needed, and rightly so. but I still carry my poor librito.Él you open it and read the first poem, if it understands and reads like the second, as is one that does not like, closes the book and place it in the only grocery store shelf biblioteca.Nunca which acts more as open.
not as well read my books. A night of barbecue and trick, crammed and gorged beast of wine, told me secretly that he read a book completely, another put on the shelf after the first explanation is poema.No and neck I'll know for sure, but I feel good about the pact between writer and reader that we desarrollado.Además as he says, his library in a single rack, it is only my books, adding slyly, books the best known poet, the only one who knows.
is for me, is a personal pride that no other writer can darse.Todos my failures are there, and that's my success, unique, unbeatable, compared to all writers and poets of the world!. Therefore
friends and poets, I can tell at this moment I will continue writing until I die, for my friend Andrew, grocer the corner.
/ / aldo luis novelli / poet spic and laburante .- luis
A hug impetuoso.aldo novelli / from the edge of the desert .-
A brief response from my email to Novelli.
No matter who you write, but you do it in ink life and this is very important, as is the reality, that lived, because dreams, those we dream every day, such as the poet said: Dreams are. This piece of glass so unreal with whom or through it, we communicate on a daily basis is odorless and tasteless, it has nothing, is just another lie, but at times with us to drop us lies and then we go on living, of deception to deceive because the truth is inside you and it's hard to have her with us, it is difficult for us to deal with because we are always avoiding loneliness where she is seen in its entirety. So you see that not only wrote for the grocer, but also for the poet friends. "And the chair, Aldo, where it is, the left, away?, You see I will not forget. I greet with special affection. Teresa.
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