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. They were in no hurry. At last one fellow finished his dessert and put down the napkin. “What do you want?” “To entertain you.” “Are you a woman? What you talk about?” “ You have a scacci computer, a chess computer here. I’ll beat it in the first game.” “This is the best system soldi can buy.” “I’ll beat it playing blind, without looking at the board. You will interpret the moves.” “Porco maladetto, you crazy? No one can do that.” “I will do that.” A man in the corner interfered. He was powerfully built, with broad shoulders and bulging muscles. One hand was crippled and there were numerous scars on his face and palms. I saw him before. Early in the morning he worked on his fishing boat with a bunch of other guys. He placed a cup of coffee in front of me and started talking with the others. I indulged myself slowly to the last drop. “You play, “the pitch – black eyes of the fisherman rotated in the orbits like Chinese balls, “No soldi.” “I don’ t want money. If I win you get an apartment for my family here, in the village for as long as we stay. No evictions.” “You play. Scacci benissimo. You play and you win. Domani.” “Tomorrow evening then. How about some of that cake now?” “Adeso no. Not now. Domani, tomorrow, when you play. Now you just have some coffee. Me your manager.” “I see. You want to keep me in the fighting spirits.”
A writer is a rogue goose. All other gees fly in a flock formation; every goose knows his place and time for honking. The rogue goose is undisciplined. He leaves the formation indiscriminately to have a look at it from aside. He roams back and forth, takes a peep at the leader, honks a little bit from behind, distracts everyone and writes on what he sees. Time passes and as he wants to return back to his place he discovers someone else there. Thus he either has to wait until they land for rest or join another flock in emigration. Those other birds could be cranes, storks or even crows. If he makes it he will become a rogue again. Whenever he goes and whatever he writes he never reaches a destination or enjoys a landing. There's only Kipling's God of Fair Beginnings and skies above and beyond. And the only way for a writer to make peace with the Deity is through the language of Poetry.
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