How To Make A Flower Polar Coordinates

Dove

Questo di Andrea Di Consoli (La curva della notte – Rizzoli 2008) è un libro funereo, viscerale e disperato.
Dove il protagonista, al volante della sua macchina, viene colpito da un infarto raccontato in dodici stazioni che attraversano e cuciono insieme la storia di una vita.
Dove le donne sono corpi agognati e disprezzati, da spogliare, aprire e riempire come sotto frenesia predatoria generata da horror vacui.
Dove gli esseri umani sono famigliarmente chiamati cani.
Dove per avvalorare la tesi che nella realtà odierna si ha a che fare con “cani senza reason, we resort to comfort - in exergy - a fragment of the ancient Chaldean Oracles. Where
childhood friend is discovered in bed with his mother while - you hungry and willing - to humiliate and enslave.
Where the application with which to torment the friend twenty years later found in bed with the mother, but she, I took it in his mouth?
Where the young wife of his childhood, the one discovered in bed with his mother and led to a car accident which is actually a not so disguised murder, and trophies to lead straight to bed. Where
a friend newer, young and beautiful, is good only as a plaything, erotic silent as a statue eyes without irises. Where
bodies and memories of loved ones (mother, father, wives, friends) are used as materials in the composition of violent plots incestuous.
Where children are denied space, and then, in turn, poisoned by rancor. Where gravity
suspended a leaden atmosphere, from "how good it was the old dream, and what has gone wrong around relentlessly."
where the protagonist does nothing but drink and smoke and drink, in a self-destructive frenzy accompanied by presentations of cancer lung, blood outlets, paralyzed legs and other hallucinations bleak.
Where the human condition is represented and described - with persuasive effect - as a condition of sputum, bleeding and rape.
Where the materials of an old abandoned factory, the lights of a nightclub, after the revolutionary sessantottino and memories of a sad business for railways (along the coast are more than likely Calabria), are the fifth in the staging of a very dark tragedy.
where the protagonist is called Theseus. (Theseus, but was not the one who, thanks to Ariadne's thread, killing the Minotaur and the Labyrinth was going out with him except the young men destined for sacrificial victims?)
Where a mythological episode of salvation becomes mocking imitation.
Where there is a glimmer of hope, death takes pride and beauty of the sea and women was livid light used to illuminate it better.
Where is released, however, a dark underground and that land-based force, disturbing, catching and intriguing.
What else? Perhaps, in a society and a culture where life is stupid silicone, and death stubbornly removed, even the masterly description of a prolonged agony painfully forced to look into the eyes crucial aspects of a reality explicitly whole.