White Rum, Coca-Cola, lemon ice: it is the drink that took its name from the cry of the Cuban rebels to the English domination in the last nineteenth century. It 's the Cuba libre, which is the title of this book in despair, in which you drink with method and with the culture of a member dell'Aibes (Which would be the maximum of the barmen in the brotherhood movement) and in whom you have sex, in fact we are the girls with the same method and with the culture of a kamasutra without much imagination. Sex
as serial jobs, a variation of the identical, in fact Andy Warhol moved into the bedroom. But behind the exercises of love horizontally, snorted cocaine, booze to rock rhythms, there is a vacuum, they move groping the intertwined lives of a group of young people in the affluent province of Emilia. An empty soul, that hellish crowd of dancing, their bodies stuck to the bodies and searched by hand indifferent, can not fill, and even the accessories are, of course trendy, which are armed with these young people well, then so much is not: mobile super, super car, the strips of Armani or Versace or D & G, which for the uninitiated is the magical figure of Dolce and Gabbana. Screw
reckless, by Vasco Rossi an easy rider in ours, that the chopper - the bike lying of '60 - has replaced the Porsche Cayenne, and travel on the road on the endless roads of America in search of freedom, the small race stage of a generation - or at least a sample - which has lost sight of the goal and does not know or do not want to know that his freedom is - false - the anarchy of feelings, deception induced by the laws of each consumption . A story for
as it were open, that does not begin and end according to the traditional: it is first started and out of this book, and out and then it will continue, but with "The Last Cuba libre" has left an imprint in the form that apparent breach of an essay on sexual cannibalism and contains quite a few reasons to reflect on how and why young people come to squander vast resources, mental and psychological and refuse to plan a future in excess of a around the clock - of course Rolex.
Pier Francesco Grasselli - a fierce vocation for writing, and soon discovered since then doggedly pursued - let 's "Autogrill" of his first travelogue for the most demanding test of the novel itself: a kind of old, from the time of the Greeks and Romans through the centuries to establish itself in the modern age. E 'il was chivalrous adventure, historical and social, realistic, intimate, and has removed the man's world, abolishing the subject to lay eyes on the "totality of things", was political and entertainment, action and training, but whatever was the habit has forced on its pages for generations men in search of truth, or substitutes for those truths which are stories of literature.
For "The Last Cuba libre" - which is inconvenient Watson Kierkegaard or - you can think of a novel definition of "behavioral," or maybe "existentialist" but I especially felt a sort of cold dossier on frantic, foolish, full of hedonism as a cortex rich youth burns his life thinking to embrace her. They fight the boredom and the fear of boredom running at 200 per hour in the darkness of nights, or slipping in some sex-party in which they are trying to kill the loneliness. As in "Reigen" the circle of Arthur Schnitzler, what happens is closed in a circle in which the actions are repeated, but change the points of view from which the players and watch them live.
Leo, Jessica, Tony, Gretchen, Claudio, Max: beautiful, unfaithful, sexually insatiable, even capable of feeling, but never to make it a core of the soul. Students failed, who are satisfied with the 18 "garden" - that is put on test booklet thrown out the window in disgust from the professor - but connoisseurs of exotic drinks and every musical slang. A procession without happiness, which moves in a world painted in black, screaming as the last CD, which is where it leads the inertia of a pleasure that repeats the usual rites in the usual places: the "Disco Labirinto", a circle of hell where they lose their minds, and Cortina D'Ampezzo, where you need to be confirmed members of the community happy few, the privileged few, or those who seemed to be. A Curtain of yesteryear in the snow, visited the places where they make jokes sex portable toilet eroticism for women. Scandal? Cortina in high politics, the big business of big sports, everything takes place: even the unsavory habits of the young lions in vacation travel. Chips transgression that once fucked in a hurry under the carpet of respectability, and now hover in the air bracing of the Dolomites free, and if found, as in our case, someone able to collect and deposit them in the pages of a book, remain nothing more than trivial details of a story far more important.
On the other hand, is it not true that even the obscene literature offers the opportunity, the means of a purchase, transferring it as a document of costume in the space of art, or its vicinity? The list is long, from Henry Miller to Lawrence, and from Bukovski Houellebecq, so it is in good company the young Grasselli, but does not accuse relatives, because he is the son of the civilization in which everything can be hard - from sex to music, cinema, language, time in which all lie on the speed of the mill, where the only perceptible dimension of this is that in a moment is gone, and where the feelings have the place of feelings, impulses and thoughts of the place. So his book was bound to be a faithful witness: I first talked about the novel, but perhaps I should speak of a compilation of lives torn, a collection of clips and allusions, however explicit, such as advertising a youth wrong. George Bataille wrote that eroticism is the deepening of life even into death, but the protagonists of this book, these last trincatori Cuba libre, glide over the life without questioning, and death - when they encounter - is nothing more than a setback, a hitch in the operation of habits.
And so, instead of eroticism, here is the copulatory bulimia, secreting the mood, but leaves the soul dry. You can even kill and immediately turn up the volume of the stereo, trying to maneuver it into something happy and carefree, and drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, and start again. Stendhal said that a novel is a mirror that goes in the street, sometimes reflects the blue of the sky, sometimes the mud puddles. Today, instead of the mirror is perhaps the phone, but the landscape does not change: read this book, and I'll agree.
