Wednesday, March 23, 2005

in qualche modo

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Superficie a testura vibratile, 1972, by Getulio Alviani

And their sins were, well, extravagant: do not rub the backs of dogs; coin no false money; do not lie except about sex, about which lying was compulsory. Had he perhaps said something about sex? No, not at all. Had he rubbed the back of a dog? In that moment, precisely as he reached the bus stop, the gentleman understood himself to be a Martyr of the Faith but could not be certain as to which faith. … For an instant he remained in doubt, but then he understood that his uncertainty embodied his prestige, his tepidity, his strength: he stood at the start of a new career, when, just as he was stepping up onto the bus, his severed head slipped from his hands.

An excerpt of an excerpt of Centuria: One Hundred Ouroboric Novels, by Giorgio Manganelli, translated by Henry Martin, published last month by McPherson & Company, published in part this month by Harper’s Magazine.


Blogger Loxias said...

I read this book years ago (in the Compatridese translation) and it felt, how can I put it, weak in a sense.

1:39 pm EET  
Blogger sissoula said...

You(r) compatridos get all the good stuff first!

I don’t know if I’ll read the whole book, but I like what I read -- and I really like this guy who knows he did sth wrong and is ready to sacrifice sth for it, if only he could figure out what. It’s overtly Kafkaesque, but it’s also sort of Devil’s Larder, although that's another one that gets weak, should we decide to put it that way, after about the fifth or sixth story...

6:33 pm EET  

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