Look, I’m leaving
Look, I’m leaving
Shattered families and bleak everyday interiors at the heart of a hyper-realistic urban scenario. There are people who make up names and stories for themselves. Men who leave, fathers who leave, women who leave, women who stay and get in the way. People who are about to say
I love you or the opposite and who incessantly ask themselves what in the world it means. Today’s love and that of tomorrow. The “I don’t knows.” One, two escapes abroad. And ultimately a greeting. A promise. A docking. So that the search for oneself calms down for a moment, only to start up once more, working itself up again in a feverish stile like the frenetic lives that the author narrates without haste.
“It portrays a generation. It’s oral writing. Sara Vannelli has an ear, she’s tuned in and in tune with the sounds of life. She perceives them all, even the whispers, the inaccuracies, the murmurs, the noises, the inarticulate cries and she reproduces them on paper with no other aim than what is actually the very noble ambition of sharing the burden of her loss with her readers“
Look, I wanted to tell you, Sandy said, starting to gesture nervously and staring at the embers of the fire, then quickly shifting her gaze to the Schiele paintings hung on the walls of the room, the profound lines of those bodies and the corners of the frames, the details of the ashtray they were ashing into, the hem of her pants and the misty glass and the beige curtains and again breasts and neck, rising to her lips and landing on those eyes, light as huge summer heavens.
I wanted to tell you that I think maybe it would be better for both of us not to think about it anymore, I don’t know, just to hold onto a really beautiful memory, you know, not to talk about it, look, to think about something else, our lives, what we’re going to do and when…
Can’t we just kiss? Rose said, brushing aside all the rest.
Sandy understood well, perfectly. She said nothing. Dumb struck. Trembling.
She lowered her head. When she raised it her lips found Rose’s again.
They kissed. Without separating for ten, fifteen minutes. They dreamed, lost, found, loved each other, for much more than ten, fifteen minutes.