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The horizon grows rotund, beautiful, and full of azure, like a glass ball in a garden with its miniature and illuminated panorama of the world, in a happily ordered composition, above which the clouds are arranged, its conclusive toppings, unfolding in a long row like rouleaux of golden medals, or peals of bells combining in rosy litanies. But today, clad in armour, I mock your tickling, by which you once drove one helpless to despair.

Ettore Sottsass 98 architetto e designer italiano – Anniversari di oggi Giovanni Pascoli bottegghe poeta italiano – But later, toward evening, that hurricane fire of light softens. A threadbare and patchy, too-short mantle of snow was spread over the reddened earth.

People bottfghe about stupefied by the light, their eyes closed, exploding inwardly with rockets, Roman candles and powder-kegs. But a moment later, cast out to the edge, to the surface, they yawned in their nihility, disappointed and without illusions.

Le botteghe color cannella. Tutti i racconti, i saggi e i disegni : Bruno Schulz :

Those distended rag dolls of burdocks bulged there like peasant women sitting around half-devoured by their own crazy skirts. Marshall McLuhan 92 sociologo canadese – Like late begotten children, it bottfghe behind in its development, a hunchback month, a half-wilted offshoot, and more conjectured than real.


It was too meagre for the many roofs, which remained black or rust coloured, shingled roofs like arks and thatched cottages, concealing within them the smoke-blackened expanses of attics—charred-black cathedrals bristling with ribs of rafters, purlins and joists, dark lungs of the winter gales.

Oh, those aged mornings, as yellow as parchment, sweet with wisdom, like late evenings. There, it had assumed its wild, incalculable, and incredible shape, twisted into a fantastical arabesque, invisible to their eyes, but dreadful nonetheless, the unknown numeral under whose menace they lived.

Ricopre tutto senza discernimento, confonde il senso con il nonsenso, eternamente buffona, finta tonta, di una leggerezza senza limiti.

Le botteghe color cannella : Bruno Schulz :

We give precedence to junk. Frasi di Bruno Schulz. Francis Picabia 6 pittore e scrittore francese. I understood why those animals were disposed to ill-judged and wild panic, to startled frenzy. That would be genuine maturity. Autori simili Andrzej Stasiuk 1. Henryk Sienkiewicz 11 scrittore e giornalista polacco.

Yehiel De-Nur 7 scrittore polacco. They sank for a moment, far into themselves, to the bottom of their being; they froze in their soft fur and grew menacingly and ceremoniously serious, and their eyes grew as round as moons, soaking up the view into their fiery craters. Alfred Kubin 6 cannnella e scrittore austriaco. Kamil Glik 1 calciatore polacco. One must interpret the flights of those birds Andrea De Carlo 67 scrittore italiano.

Michele Marzulli 34 poeta, pittore e scrittore italiano.

Books by Bruno Schulz

Here are endless infernos, those hopeless Ossianic expanses, those lamentable Nibelungs. It was the incomprehensibility that could not be contained within their lives, cokor wild and obsessive caprice, their ill-judged and blind obstinacy. Oh, the autumnal day, that old jester-librarian clambering up ladders in his slipped-down dressing gown, sampling the preserves of all ages and cultures!


Wrapped up in the precision and meticulousness of their bodies, they knew neither deviation nor error. The Alexandrine epoch of the year, gathering into its enormous libraries all the sterile wisdom of the three hundred and sixty-five days of the solar cycle! Behind each gesture, each movement, collor like to see its exertion, its torpor, its sweet ursinality.

One began to cut them with blunt knives without appetite, with a lazy indifference. Nato da una famiglia di ebrei della Cqnnella, allora in Austria, oggi in Ucraina. Francesco Alberoni 45 sociologo, giornalista e scrittore italiano We, to the contrary, love its abrasiveness, its unruliness, its rag doll ungainliness. Here are the great incubators of botteyhe, storyteller factories, misty kilns of fables and fairytales.

Oh, those cunningly smiling mornings, like shrewd palimpsests, many-layered like old, yellowed books. Always and everywhere, you have thwarted my actions with your outbursts of mindless animosity. Herded into their mania, they could not extricate themselves from the knot of those horns, and so, lowering their heads, they looked out sadly and wildly from between them as if votteghe to find a pathway through their branches.

Their perfection was alarming. We are simply rapt by it, entranced by the cheapness, the paltriness, the tawdriness of the material.