A very surprised welcome caught us Sunday, August 22. Two pages of the Republic for Daniel Boccardi, the weekly column on forgotten writers, disappeared. The article by the Florentine writer Filippo Bologna contains some inaccuracies (the most serious is what gives rise to Daniel Massa, instead of Grosseto, a city always important in his short life) and also omissions, such as talking about the serious matter of the thesis, and then silence as widely known, also published in "Low Lives," Marcello Pera, "thinking head" of forzaitalia and former chairman of the Senate (as well as speaker at a year after the death of Daniel in the commemoration which was held at the council chamber Mass ....). But then the piece has many merits, and because of that, I think that will not please many of our fellow citizens, that of small Siena, the walls and the silence have reason to live.
Finally, in passing, I would point out that almost two years from the filing of a petition signed by 97 citizens, no response came from the municipality on the proposal to name a street after Daniel Boccardi and Sebastiano Leone.
Daniel Boccardi painful that the poet has denied the leap
Republic - August 22, 2010 Page 1 Section: FLORENCE
SAY Massa Marittima and that's something no returns. Why in Massa Marittima, the sea there 'is. Terrestrial and marine, planted in the ground but on the sea, Siena is a small mass that has learned to swim but did not have the courage to dive. Neither of retreat, like those divers who rose too high, then crashes to the fear and remain there, like statues of the crib. Being born in a city that if 'is felt to face the open sea but has not stopped dreaming, are things that affect the characters, especially those of poets and philosophers. Philosophers are those who would plunge but are afraid of the waves, and then all clothes remain on the beach, watching the 'horizon while others are swimming. The poets are the ones that go under instead of 'water, which hold their breath, and thought, the longer it all, then try to catch some Perlee regalarlea us. Daniela Boccardi was a poet, was a philosopher, was Massa Marittima. Was it because it is not. Not anymore. One day he decided he had had enough. Sometimes the poets and philosophers is easier to die because it is more difficult to live. The trouble is that one's own death can only speak the other, death makes it impossible for any objectivity, it is holy or damned, there 'is no escape. is well, c 'is all. And there 's nothing. You know it little by little. When the morning browsing the giornalee it says that everything is fine when the evening rolls down the shutters of the shop and 'suddenly felt a twinge in the back and you wonder how many times have you made that gesture, when you mirrors in the windows of course and see a man who looks at you when you hold in your coat as you walk through the desert wind swept the course. When the seriousness of life has sucked forever in his slow whirl and you find yourself cursing the dreams, and the years, matured at the tables of the bar, died of cold in the churchyard of the cathedral. Too late, you realize it's too late. Too soon, Daniele Boccardi if n 'is realized too soon. But what will that my son every day locked in his room to pound on the keys of a typewriter? Daniel is training: the writing is the 'athletic' s soul, it 's auction of the thought to jump over the ditch and jump over the wall. Daniel 's got, and he trains every day for the big jump. Then comes the fear of not succeeding, resignation, withdrawal. Those walls that our ancestors have left us and surround our soothing Tuscan town, now, no longer needed. The most insidious enemy is not imminent but in the cellar. And there 's air of the cellar in the writings of Daniel, he is the first to breathe, "Everything I write has musty smell of stale air" between the pin cards. We had to open, to get some air, but the windows were heavy, they were not nailed. A quiet boy Daniel, high school, then the 'unipoi living or non-living (dying ever), just to say alive or dead, it seems the voice of one family was required by' register letterariao a golden plate be posted on the door for scacciarei ghosts. Maybe because we always fear of the dead, they return to visit us and tell us what they really think of us. Daniela Boccardi had grown in the province. Other than the province is "open to the winds and to strangers" that envisioned by anarcho-sentimental Bianciardi. Tutt 'other province, turreted and fortified, closed in on itself, entrenched in the rituals and habits: the bar, the church, bell tower, shops, a regular evening stroll in the evening, almost looks like a plastic, a world in miniature. Why leave, whispers, here is diversity, filosofiaa Pisa. From one province to 'the other, Pisa is not Paris, d' Agreement, but the bitter Maremma lungarni gold is something. Then pop up problems with the thesis, a divergence with the rapporteur that s 'balks on the title: For a philosophy of experimental science, c' is for that which is bad. Either that, or nothing. Then nothing. Daniel does not give way, the argument remains in the drawer. University threatens to change the end, the dispute is released, and the thesis finally gets the placet of the Baron. Following graduation, and Homer back to Massa, it's time to look for work. But in the meantime the work has expired, no longer exists, there are temporary jobs, necroforo for a few months, cleaning in public restrooms, the duplication of Italian to foreigners in the camps, things like that. Daniel adapting, as we teach the parents the work is never degrading, humiliating if anything, is not it. Knock on doors that do not open, the days go by and not even you realize. Daniel closes more and more, the 'last summer, no vacation, no goal to reach. It remains to wade in the swamp of time does not pass, not one where it sinks nor floats, that any remediation of the Grand Duke Leopold will never dry up. Then he decided to cross it alone, the swamp. And to reach the 'other side. Leaves behind a trail of leaves. Are many and scattered. What gets stuck on the tongue in public, out of the roller of the typewriter in private. Sometimes it goes well. The writing becomes a lawyer and a confessor entrust our will, our secrets: know keeping them without betraying? Screw minimum, morally harmful writings is the title of the anthology of writings published posthumously in 2003 for the types of Alternative Press. It is mostly short stories, but also aphorisms, poems, fragments, some fairy tales. The materials are heterogeneous and undated (perhaps it was not possible to do so), difficult to discern at times one senses a maturity different from writing a script. The curator of the book lacks a bit 'of lucidity, two prefaces, an afterword, as if each had felt the need to add something, to tell her Daniel. But the wound is still open, is more than understandable, those are wounds that do not close. In the end what matters is the book, and what's around. Screw minimoys a book painful, sudden, surprising. How is the writing of Daniel Boccardi, who manages to get out of difficult situations with the 'intelligence of a chess combinatorial. God divertea play with the big men on the chessboard of life. But sometimes, that's the 'lighting,' intuition winning one move, and a desperate position is reversed in checkmate. Black and white, Boccardi can flip the sadistic game of 'existence showing the negative, simply turn the scacchierae take the role of' opponent. "So little Kili 50 / I want / the center of the earth", here it is the unexpected combination, three lines and gravity turns down ' in sudden desire to be loved. What then is the great engine at the bottom of the writing of Daniel, of all: desperate, irritating, moving, bastard looking for love. What you can look everywhere: between the breasts of a hot 'teacher withered the province, in the shyness of a salesman door to door in the face-off between a "ship-to-school" and the concerned mothers of his "pupils", even andandoa Stir in the shit you can find traces of love, as in the story The research, where 'eschatology of a letter and it cripples you scatology. Look for the 'Love is our mission, we find our hope. Growing up in a small community with the certainty of being equal and the awareness of being different, perhaps more sensitive than the shame of one's intelligence, cultivate warm illusion of being accepted, even respected. Never caressed, the province is a thankless parent who would prefer an abortion rather than be kind to one of his sons. This is a life minimum. But a minimum life is not necessarily a bitter life. Apparently forced the 'combination on the back cover with Bianciardi fellow brothers does not mean, as the force would be parallel with Michelstaedter, and philosophers do not die young enough to be companions. Daniela Boccardi did not companions, he trained in solitary, to improve, to move ever higher up the 'stick of doubt, to be ready at the time of the great jump. What more, we can not do.
- PHILIP BOLOGNA
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