Why Are Some Black People Eyes Yellow?

Claudio Rigon - "The leaves of the Capitano Michel" - Ed Young Einaudi

I reviewed this wonderful book and I like to put my comment here to share it.

When I saw and then taken, on the store shelf, I thought this book was a little 'one of many, the Great War. Being a fan of places in the mountains where this war took place, the Ortigara has, for me, a special charm, and I read many writings, the first of G. Pieropan, so I thought that this paper stands a bit 'in the wake of the many books of that type.

Instead I found something different and at the same time intriguing and delicately charming.

The author, a professor of physics in high school, and passionate picture of the battlefield of his area, just the Plateau of Asiago, tells of how he discovered a series of leaflets (about two hundred and fifty) with phonograms, preserved some of Captain Michel, covering a period, rather short in our eyes (06/24/1916 - 07.29.1916), which he spent with the battalion of Alpine, which had just taken command, silverware, and bear witness, through the written word just in the crucial moments of this past month Ortigara foot, right in the "hot" face of the Plateau, emotions, and facts, not fictional form, but of indirect description of life lived and the problems more or less serious and serious of which the captain was both protagonist and narrator unconscious , as a chronicler of us who live to read. In those circumstances the period of little more than a month becomes an eternity, because every moment was lived with intensity and emotion worthy of years of Our modern city life.

While reading I felt almost follow the author, Claudio Rigon (at first sight in front of the bookshelves I had believed to be Mario Rigoni Stern, the famous "Sgt "Asiago, not having read the author's last name right, well this oversight I regret it, bringing a good book in hand!) in its place the package on the table in chronological order of the Museo del Risorgimento di Vicenza, to make sense and temporal consistency to the messages that gradually pulled out of one or more of the envelopes of the "Donation Michel."

He seemed almost to stand behind him and furtively read the words traced by hand on yellow cards, and even imagine the emotions of the researcher-reader with respect and care, was gradually trying to get an idea of what the captain and the characters as they come in his writings (characters really lived and even some deaths, among the stones Ortigara) had lived and experienced.

E 'methodical and calm, never boring or static, the work of reconstruction emotional Claudio Rigon held by these "slips" and can expertly interlayer, between one and another of them, some personal feelings and insights , like some rare, quote from famous books such as Lussier ("A Year on the plateau), gradually painting a picture of reality and the fact that men have given to those places and those places that I have visited remain as enchanted, their appearance, a sense, nell'insensata carnage in which they were subjected, in spite of themselves.

Rigon The ability to make good use is in having the material he had: films that at first sight may appear aseptic and quite empty of facts in order to ensnare the reader's attention. It is also very synthetic data nell'infuriare orders of battle or issues of provisioning, or reports of events such as desertions during the tragic moments of the days when soldiers in the trenches knew that they were destined to certain death, or even small variations on a fountain pen that a junior officer had bothered to buy a watch for him or that had to be repaired, because damaged in the confusion of combat.

applause goes to the author of this book, he also managed to enter, always with great respect for the reader (and the memory of that Captain Michel) on the news Captain himself: three silver medals, outlining the image of the official rather devoid of rhetoric and fiction, that the soul of humanity was that he needed, even though they made a hero of his heroism has never been mentioned, and an officer of the Italian Army in 1916 to put Mature with tranquility itself to do its job to protect the lives of "his" mountain and perform the duty of a soldier sent to fight on the Ortigara, and perhaps to die.

All this makes reading this book not only enjoyable, but I would say "enjoy" as is done with good wine, to savor the "body" and enjoy it and leave space to the emotions of our readers, are grateful to those who have done a worthy job of research and reconstruction between 2001 and 2009, and offers as something that can be appreciated by anyone in the mood. We modern readers, sitting comfortably in our living rooms, we can try to imagine and perhaps only vaguely imagine the fear and the courage to face them, that men of true thickness as the captain Michel, as is the E. Lussier and many others like them, have shown us, leaving us an example not of words but of real life.

Cranberry Juice Red Stool

Mountain, a young mountain

I remember it like yesterday: that chilly in the back after it had rained the night when you went out in the pale morning sun and I hope with all my heart that the day you pay off of having the expected with the patience that can have a teenager, the depletion of rain the day before.

I went toward the mountains still dark gray stone cold and wet of the night and the water fall, where the sunlight began to caress the walls and vertiginous angles that at that age I put a little ' anxiety. I started and as I walked, pants shorts and wool socks under the boots of vibram of which I was so proud, and a backpack full of my things, I felt the wetness of the grass that is sent to the socks, the mandate of the cold, even down to the feet, and felt the drops from the branches of many trees fell short hair remaining on my boy.

Yet I was happy, excited even to endure the cold (it made me feel like a little hero that no one knew was that!), Enthusiastic about the long trips I was doing, exploring and discovering strange and magical places, where the gold of the sun painted the walls pink and shades of charm, where smells of pine mingled with those of the flowers of the meadows full of summer heat and the noise of the river which crosses or the stones rolled from the steep and stony, more or less isolated.

I was happy that just arrived from the city, in the afternoon (the train from Rome traveled all night and the "bus" we filed back in the mountains before lunch, after a year of dreaming ), I went along the stream that ran not far from where we were to look for a branch long enough and flexible but not too much for us a bow whose string was the string from parcels that had already bagged from Rome. Then I tried branches, more difficult to find, straight and fine, that they should give me the arrows, and I came home, and I sat on the bench outside, with boxcutter that never leaves, and that made me feel young Robinson, although the mountains, and clean all the branches in the cortex and the knots in the wood, which hindered me in the drawing that I had, and slowly made a beautiful arch ready to shoot arrows at imaginary enemies. Arco I would take around 20 days, the time to spend the holidays in that corner of the Dolomites that guy saw me and then slowly become man and that I did not see much, if not to return to climb, but never with my heart I had then.

would come not always, the newspaper that Corriere della Sera newspaper that, in addition to local Ladin, the only certainty was the cultural period and place. Just a little 'heavy rain and hard and a bit' swollen rivers and streams of water that the bus was late delivery and possibly the newspaper arrived the next day. There was no TV, no Internet or cam that today lead me to my house by the sea, the images of those which remained in the mountains to live a little piece of my heart, even during the winter. There was not even an ATM. I remember when they did the first club was called "The Witches" and then we still girls dream of going big and perhaps even dance with the blonde that she was Bolzano on holiday and I occupied the thoughts, at least for the time I was there.

remember that the road was not even asphalt, the final three kilometers from the center that were important, Canazei, was simply a "white road" but went to two countries where he lived so many people and many holidaymakers, and no problems if they did, there passed peacefully even the bus three times a day.

They were happy days, in which I filled with anything so long and I did fill the soul.

with simple things and dreamed of having fun and also lived part of my dreams.

build a hut with a few tables, and every summer before returning to the city, took it down and replace everything, yet during that time the cabin was a refuge more than safety and lonely, even when it rained or was really bad weather, or at least, this seemed to us .. There were days when I was just in the river shore, then quell'Avisio that did not have a concrete embankment even dream about it, and pick up stones, hoping to split them out of quartz or amethyst geodes as those I saw on display in stores in the valley, and I honestly thought I was dreaming and to be able to find my geode, not to sell it, but I also feel good to find the hidden corners of nature. Geode ever found any, or anything that thin veins of quartz pebbles in the cold current of the stream that came from ice that was up on the Queen, the Marmolada, never hit a few buffalo or foe, those arrows with half-bent and hold as My age at the time.

But in my heart, today, I go out on the street to buy a newspaper and a croissant in the morning after the night's rain on the asphalt, which today still live in the city, very safe by any flood, in my heart of man to remember those days have to look a bit ' away, put on glasses, everything is alive, the cold in the back, the joy of classes with clear boxcutter of guy, simple living every year for 20 days and slowly disappearing to make way for "progress" there, too, among the Dolomites, everything remains safe and secure and well guarded, because I can not say that "time was different and better " (as they always have done and the old!), but it has been fortunate to enjoy such simple and beautiful precious gifts, and that these gifts will I still be here, shining, I can say this, it makes me smile lights and warms my heart even today.

Milena Velba Reading Books

Simple things, beautiful things

I was at dinner, normal and peaceful although birthday. Today we use to party and invite in odd places, using fiction to fill much of our life, so lead us to do and we think we are good at inventing, while reciting scripts written elsewhere, not just for us. Instead, yesterday this was not, was something much better.

The case is simple, non-penthouse with a terrace of 90 square feet where you go with the shoes, not window that target the night of the City of Art making you feel like you're in an apartment on the 40th floor of a giant building in New York, furniture found in a craft market that are worth untold fortunes, though paid peanuts, nothing that the poor children of this world live appearances, they believe is the spice of life for everyone. None of this.

There was heat, there was sincerity, there was love in everything that I have lived, touched and tasted.

normal A house, top floor with no elevator, but go up the stairs and watch the doors on each floor as simple as they once were, it was a pleasant trip back to old houses and yet still beautiful, even without any editing of modern fiction. Inside, where the human shaped hear everything, furniture that may appear trivial elsewhere, might smile at the heart of those who live there and who comes to visit and fill ourselves with beauty, that of those who arranged them and loves them , though perhaps necessarily dovendolo do ... and yet so sweetly and gently. When you're in a place that pulls the air feel , be warned that some say the ' aura, and that was the true light, bright yet quiet, normal white light of wisdom, as sweet as the lady of the house, intent to prepare good things despite not worthy dishes to be named from Artusi.

The snow-white dog that went crazy with joy and played as a child and wanted attention, as did my daughter when she was a child, and friends came to visit and she was a theater. The animals are instinctual and follow your heart, and he, the dog was white with snow and it was also the theater and this was right, it was beautiful.

Dinner of good things, many, wine sauce and a few quiet words people put around a table with a feeling, friendship, simple, sincere, no conference, no solemnity, no pagan rituals and empty, but normal and feel good about everything and nothing, and yet simple peaceful and normal conditions of beauty, humanity and heart.

if the food made with love, even if the crust of bread, looks sweet, the wine even though it might seem a little nectar, a home from 70 yards could become a palace. But man, the real one, the one who lives the life, the honest, do not need a palace, or nectar, is the truth and sincerity and is feeling good, inside . I needed this and like this, stay to enjoy an evening listening to even just, memories of concerts of Mina, as tales of the deeds of the dogs, our companions in life and travel, dessert recipes fates with beautiful things and simple, like memories past lives centuries ago when they were other families in our lives. To me this pleasure of enjoying dinner and this was in the dishes, mushrooms and fine words, wine and good feelings, birthday wishes and nice people, simple people and yet so varied, so rich in the simplicity of what I appreciate in life: a sincere humanity and crystal drops of water that you could see the joy in the eyes of the landlady, and that each of us felt within himself.

This was yesterday, this is now, when the post is not sad to come back and seek the past, but enrichment and pleasure of seeing the film as an actor lived and seen as a privileged spectator, because preferred sitting in a row, the first. This is because even today I can say that the life that I meet in my road.