Last winter I bought a book because I liked its title "The separation of the male" (author, Francesco Piccolo). I sensed that there was talk of love, I saw a man who spoke, I imagined - the title - that he would have to quibble about some schizophrenia with which many of us, not only males to be honest (but interesting here was the their point of view), live their love life.
For many months the book remained in the pile next to the bed of those who, sooner or later I would face. A writer friend, in fact, told me it was a boiata. Then, recently, a friend struggling with the need to understand the usual complicated story, he told me that the volume is interesting. So I picked up, thinking it might be a foray into the control room: to understand how they think the males, as they live.
At first pages the book I found it so-so, then curious, then I wanted to see where it was going.
is the story of a man who speaks in first person, married with one daughter. Held in parallel on many stories, I told her everything, the book goes through vaguely erotic, but there is no patch for me, eroticism or alive or seems to gymnastics. His stories, he explains to you that it is attracted by the asses of women will fall in love more and all his love is not like a cake, that if in ten are the ones that need to eat, they all have one-tenth, or a small slice. His ability to love is one and triune, so to speak: is always compact, indivisible, just moving from one subject to another, from one thing to another, even within a short time without taking anything away from all ' more. It helps in this, the absolute lack of guilt (which, however, continue in spite of everything we Catholics have to deal, although analysts say that today is the sense of inadequacy as quoted on the couch).
But then his wife leaves him, not because it discovers everything. Why do you find another with her husband and her husband do not say nothing, nothing criticizes. The drama is not here, for our hero, but that he thought he was omnipotent, to hold it all together: to love his wife, his daughter grow up, live his unbridled sexual curiosity. Instead, everything falls, because there is someone who acts out what he had planned, calculated.
not know, I do not know. The book I added nothing. I was hoping at least to give me on your nerves, because I did not understand how and where and when you push the buttons in this blessed room. Instead, not even that. Perhaps still a tad bit of hypocrisy: the need to be assured within a family and the impossibility of living a life like you want to live, beyond the 'Must do' and 'as it should be'.
I remain, very personally, the utopia of being able to imagine a love that is not possession, selfishness, accumulation, Antidio fear, inadequacy. "It was never my own, has never been ours," says Meryl Streep on the grave of Robert Redford in "Out of Africa". http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zMRRXqtKRMI&feature=related
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