STORY ON THE WALL

She was perched on that wall. Right on the edge of a barely hinted spring, yellow with sun and scattered words. She looked around torn between the hesitation of taking flight towards the uncertain, and the fear of staying still and waiting. Stop on that wall aware that waiting was not the best choice, but the alternative ... then she realized that he was approaching.

She had noticed him immediately, as he wandered around her with a synthetic and brazen indifference. He had seen him approaching from afar, when he was a barely hinted silhouette, yet as if he already had a perceptible and concrete presence of his.

It was nice.

It was not an explicit thought that manifested itself inside her, and she certainly did not want to admit it to herself immediately, but she understood it in the very moment in which she understood that she had chosen the alternative of staying, of remaining still on that wall waiting for life followed its course even beyond its will to choose. He made another round, more and more concentrically close to her, then overcame all hesitation and stopped on the wall next to her.

Illuminated by the rays of the sun she was beautiful.
Here he is, he is here next to me. But she turned her head in the most opposite direction, staring into the void always full of emotions and anxieties. They didn't move. There are moments that are so solid it is possible to mark them in all their prolonged instantaneity. Those were such. Prolonged, slow and delicately sweet.

But she was turned towards nowhere and stared at the nonexistent. Almost he wasn't there. But he was resolved now. He concentrated all his vital energies in one point of the mind transmuting them into resourcefulness, circumnavigated her body and alighted next to her on the side of the gaze.

If she had turned her gaze again it would have been a definitive refusal. He couldn't do it. He didn't want to do it and he didn't. They finally looked into each other's eyes. You could have sworn they were smiling.

She blinked nervously. He wanted to talk to her, but he couldn't. He wanted to take her hand but he had no hands to do it. He just emitted a garrulous chirping remodeled in harmony with the essence of the universe. She answered with a syncopated and irresistible chirp.

They soared together, moving in a scented cloud of spring sounds. Below them the world was increasingly distant. The scattered words faded, and those teeming shapes were smaller and smaller, tiny, voracious and corrosive bacteria too busy devouring each other to have time to raise their heads and watch their flight.

More and more distant, more and more useless, more and more non-existent,

And they flew more and more alto.

BOOK LIFE

Some books are like a safe place where you know you can take refuge when you have had enough of the world and you need a hiding place to catch your breath and free yourself from the senseless frenzy of a life that almost never lives up to the expectations you had. Reading is seclusion, sheltering, isolating oneself from the rest, healing oneself from wounds that would find it difficult to heal if exposed to light. To read is to stay closed there, in the silence that cloaks you while everything out there is useless noise. I have always enjoyed reading very much. Books open up a world of possibilities, they open your mind. They catapult you to distant places, while you are comfortably seated in your home. They isolate you from the rest of the world. They rock you. They heal you. Yes, because when we are sick, books can be therapeutic. In those written lines we find our history, our pain. We no longer feel alone. The author of the book knows perfectly well what we are talking about, but above all he knows perfectly well what we are feeling: in the world there is another person who has suffered and experienced what I am suffering and experiencing now.

THE LADY OF SERIAL KILLERS

Maybe some of you know that I don't like reading romance novels but I prefer to read thriller and mystery books. So I wanted to dedicate this post to the Thriller writers I already know and if you know others that are so good, please let me know.

 

Before achieving success with her literary career, she was also a journalist and computer analyst for the Virginia Institute of Forensic Medicine. This assignment allowed her to build with attention to detail and detail her most famous character, the well-known Kay Scarpetta, protagonist of a series that now includes more than twenty titles::
Postmortem is Patricia Cornwell’s first novel, published in 1990. The novel marks the beginning of a new genre of detective stories, where the investigation of the crime scene and the interrogation of the suspects are combined with the scientific and detailed analysis of the victims’ bodies. The heroine Kay Scarpetta, in fact, is not a detective, but a doctor, capable of reconstructing the modus operandi of a serial killer with the imperceptible traces he leaves behind: DNA, fibers, footprints. Science turns into adventure, suspense and fascination. Postmortem is the only novel to have ever won seven US literary prizes dedicated to detective stories in a single year: Edgard Award, Creasey Award, Anthony Award, Macavity Award and the French Prix du Roman d’Aventure.
KAY SCARPETTA is a character inspired by the Italian-born coroner Marcella Farinelli Fierro, born in 1941 and currently retired after being one of the first women to become a legal pathologist in the United States.
Portrait of a Killer (2002) is an investigative book by Patricia Cornwell, the result of years of research. The volume exposes the theory of the author who recognizes in Walter Sickert, a famous English painter of the late nineteenth century, the notorious serial killer Jack the Ripper. The research led Cornwell to spend huge sums to purchase a series of Sickert paintings (later donated to Harvard University) and documents of the time, including letters the “ripper” sent to the police; all in order to find the proofs (in his opinion definitive) that would nail the painter to the role of “ripper”. The book describes the life of slums in late nineteenth-century London, but the writer’s thesis has not met with favor with historians.
Just over six feet tall, blonde, blue eyes, busty, little makeup and only a Breitling B52 as an ornament, charming and aware, Kay Scarpetta was born in 1954 in Miami but has Italian origins, Veronese to be precise: both his parents come from this Italian city. As a young man she lived the experience of seeing her father die of leukemia, which certainly marked her and influenced her choice of work in which she has a close relationship with death. At around forty, when we first meet her, she has just accepted the position of director of the Virginia Institute of Forensic Medicine, and is also the director of the National Forensic Academy in Hollywood, Florida. During the series, after Richmond, he will be in Charleston, Miami, Boston and will occasionally travel for various consultations. She is very competent and scrupulous in her work, which, combined with a high moral caliber, leads her to be appreciated and esteemed in her field. She likes to dress in an elegant but sober way, suitable for her role in society; she has a great passion for cooking – obviously the Italian one – which relaxes her and distracts her from the worries related to her work. A perfectionist in everything, Scarpetta loves to control everything both at work and in the kitchen: she has a professional kitchen and she likes to prepare everything herself, even the most elaborate things. She has a colleague and friend who is a police officer who always accompanies her, Pete Marino, a companion who will later become her husband, Benton Wesley, and a niece she cares particularly much about, Lucy.
Kay Scarpetta, the famous character of Patricia Cornwell becomes cinema – Phyllis Nagy to the script. Fox brings a series of novels by Patricia Cornwell to theaters with Angelina Jolie as the famous detective. Angelina is already talking to producers and writers to bring Kay to the screen, but nothing is known yet about which of the books will be adapted, and when the film will start.

 

MY LIFE WITH BOOKS

I have been in the company of books for a good part of my life. I can say that I have had many authors as friends (Mann, Hesse, Poe, ..) who have made my life more bearable. Over the years I have accumulated many books, also because when I liked an author I bought all his works. I have come to have three thousand books in my house. My mother often complained about all the libraries occupied by my book collections. My husband too. No one has ever understood the importance of this presence in my life. Art and books have saved my life and memories of a past of childhood abuse.

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