Instead of the black article that appeared in Kromo No 18 of 24 May 2010
Two months after the death of Piergiorgio Iannelli family has agreed to make public the letter of farewell to the well-known writer has drawn during his last days.
meet again in Rome where he lived for some time in solitude on the day of the discovery of the body, the message, written by hand on several sheets of paper, is the last witness one of the Italian authors whose works the distances of time, Poison, Thirty mouths, they represent one of the highest peaks of contemporary literature. In his introduction
Damiano Iannelli, Pierre's father, wants to give some explanations about the letter we propose an absolute exclusive.
Introduction to the letter of his son Damian Iannelli
The idea of \u200b\u200bpublishing a letter from Pierre was born at the same time it passed from the hands of our police.
Both my wife and I are confident that is what my son would have wanted, but if we waited so long for a reason is as precise as demeaning. The first
When my eyes are placed on the letter I thought it was a joke, a mistake, I could not believe what I was reading was written by a pen move by the hand of my son. Whole words and phrases, written in calligraphy by hand with a tachograph times, seemed nonsensical, rambling, consisting of letters to the bulk of wide-open spaces, empty lines and punctuation almost entirely lacking. Can not pick a direction. What comes to my mind is still thinking in those lines is a toothless smile on a face and irregular used to always show off perfect teeth.
The text of the letter you are about to read is not remotely comparable to the original found in the bedroom Piergiorgio bed more than two months ago. It 'been worked by a group of experts that have occurred in a substantial restoration work just like the facades of the churches to make them pleasing to passersby.
better understand why the above carry the first three lines of the letter appeared to me as the first time:
linuagio So he is the co rivlrà chiroo
dl ffeabile.e uto. Nondipen ladies and Qllo vichieo
is ptare zienza Ditre the dovuconclu Lettra to complete. For me it was depressing to accept that a rave like that belonged to my son, but the handwriting has left no room for doubt and deep degenerative dementia that hit is the only justification for a message that many of you know, hard to accept as conceivable from what was once an intellect of rare beauty, whose disappearance will not fail to haunt me every day of my life.
textual reconstruction of the original letter of Piergiorgio Iannelli
I know that my language will prove to be confusing or totally elusive.
not up to me. What I ask is to be patient and draw conclusions in reading completed.
(If it will be possible).
I do not know where to start, I find it very difficult to focus and organize ideas. I think it's better to cast without regard to form, since there are more parameters to distinguish the correct from the wrong one.
In the past the idea to get rid of the world dreaming with my eyes closed was one of the greatest reliefs, I'd be willing to go away myself if I could give back to my mind as clear as the ability to work once.
[portion of text illegible]
I'm letting die.
not hear and not see anyone for days, maybe more than two weeks. Before you unplug the phone rang constantly. Agony. The majority of calls came from the publisher. I knew that sooner or later he would become the living to know at what point and the novel, but I did not imagine that would have started to pressure me so soon. I write for them for five years and have never missed a deadline. Five years of satisfaction that they have canceled a history of silence, waste, attempts, days spent in the machine with the feeling of beating the keys to empty the room while the roof is lowered and choking you, and you can not help but rely on the thoughts to push it up like a lid of a pot that boils water.
I thoughts I no longer have the few who can produce them he nipped in the bud.
What sense does it live in this condition?
[portion of text illegible]
has just rung the doorbell. If I could
silence too, but the insistence of those who, three floors below, he wonders what has happened to, are much smaller than the calls we receive throughout the day. Besides, I wonder how he did so many people to find out my address known to a few dear friends. Surely sooner or later will stop playing, hoping to get a response, as is also clear that the day will come when the firemen broke down the door and find me in some corner of the house consumed by hunger, if not already there I thought to myself take my life in a way that only now I'm starting to shape.
In my room, I still have to assess where, in plain sight as soon as you cross the door, the first to come will see these sheets, which probably passed through the hands of more people, before someone, perhaps a police inspector, read them and finally dissolves any doubts about my disappearance.
He appeared no more than three months ago. I
I was terrified.
On the bed in the darkness of my room, I thought to be sleeping, but at the same time I knew that was not the case, because the sleeper, and no matter what dreams may fall, not distinctly hear the ticking of the clock, the cars pass from time to time, the stretch of road under the window and the beating of his heart grow wildly like a trapped animal. I opened my
how to save the right eye by a violent nightmare, and that great, deep eyes that had appeared for the first time in the black of my field of vision, immediately disappeared, replaced by near-total darkness through which barely make out the contours of glass on the bedside table.
I closed my eyes and here it is again, dark green, crisp, a soft pulsating diaphragm muscle, naked, without lids or lashes, not entered into any orbit, and therefore perfectly spherical, that a wide-eyed from the night, every night, staring at me in the dark.
Once more for that obsession to test the possible causes of the appearances of the eye, twelve hours later I moved all the clocks the house and I went to bed. As if to prove he did not appear more cunning, but that same night, punctual as ever, a bulb no bigger than a milky onion whose pupil, like a drop of black coal, expands and contracts like the mouth of a carnivorous plant that calls for an insect to enter.
Before, during the day, doing anything, even an afternoon nap, his eyes haunted me and I could not close her eyes with relief not to be scrutinized against my will. This was the only loophole that allowed me not to go out of his mind earlier than it would have actually happened.
What allowed me to last this long is that during the first period of hallucinations I was still able to write without resorting to inhuman efforts to grasp the meaning of my thoughts, although in some circumstances start to feel frayed, undefined.
[portion of text illegible]
How could I imagine that the eye could serve as a catalyst and had already started to suck ideas, concepts, and everything was flowing from my mind?
Things have changed in a few days when the only certainty about the eye, it appeared that only when mind and body were about to surrender to the torpor of sleep at night, was shattered at the moment that the bulb began to haunt me every moment of the day, planted in my blindness as a diamond on the dark skin of a woman.
Now I see him when he blinked when I close my eyes in the shower and when, tired from the day, massage them with your fingertips to give them relief.
I can see it even now, slippery as an egg without a shell in the vacuum of my mind.
I know I am crazy and that the eye does exist because I am convinced that any fancy products, even the most dazzling, limited duration in time and above all know when it's time to stand and when to stay out under the weight of the other thoughts.
If the eye does not come from my imagination, I conclude that it is effectively eradicated. But how?
[portion of text illegible]
Perhaps to arrive at a solution, if any, should I start from further away and ask me to another question, namely who owns the eye? As I try to reason do not come to any conclusion primarily because it is not contained in any orbit, and there are elements that combine in a face which, among other things, does not mean that it can recognize as familiar. It 's like having a tooth in his fingers and say who it belongs to.
[portion of text illegible]
I can not even close his eyes to concentrate better on the endless possibilities I find him in front of me as if to read my thoughts. Certainly not an animal eye. No other eye, if not human, would express the sense of uncertainty and loneliness shining transmitted by the cyclopean eye in my head, accentuated the damp protective layer that covers it, as if we'd just cry over. It 's so beautiful an image in another eye crying eye that bothers me as mentally unable to represent the space of my fantasies is blocked by a parasite that absorbs everything you try to imagine.
That is exactly the appearance of the eye caused! Having it in front, are able to recognize every type of object, a chair, for example, because he lives in my memories, but if I try to visualize it mentally [portion of text illegible] the only thing I can produce is a set curvilinear and shapeless without significance that, for those efforts do not in any way I can to remodel according to what I proposed to think about, whose idea, meanwhile, has completely vanished from my memory.
Devoured me in the eye.
It 's like when you think of the name of a person or place but are confident of being able to recall at any moment. Imagine if you should happen with every thought, image or fantasy, each day, in every moment, every time.
because of an intruder.
The eye is hungry for more ideas, the more I weaken its force has the upper hand. I have to quit several times before I realized that he had written just a few lines, in which they are forced to return after a prolonged pause [portion of text illegible] I know you will always find many gaps in the speech, syntax errors, incomprehensible words, letters put together to case, which makes the writing of the letter excruciatingly exhausting, but necessary if I want I do not regard this as a cowardly escape from the burden of responsibility, but a person who fought against an evil came suddenly.
The anguish that the eye would have affected not only my thoughts became reality.
One morning, just got out of bed and had made two steps toward the door, I accidentally bent on one knee without knowing how to act to keep walking. I closed my eyes and we looked at. The thought of how to continue the action, to put one foot before the other, crumbled in the darkness of his pupil. I regained the coordination of the legs after a long minute when I tried to keep calm the breath so as not be overwhelmed by panic.
Now it happens that we use to get to the bathroom fifteen minutes and once there, before they realize what's gone on, I already have soaked pants. Rarely I can change my clothes. Instead of walking, because sometimes I find it impossible to sit down and slide on the buttocks right where I want to go. Basically I have to devise new ways of moving to evade the force that carries the eye right on my motor. I often use the chair of the desk. It has wheels. No matter where I go, just move me. I push with the legs when the eye movements and my freedom even if I end up crashing into the wall behind me is an achievement that makes me happy.
I'm afraid to turn on the stove because I do not know if I'll be able to turn them off.
I'm afraid to open the window because I do not know if I'll be able to close it.
I'm afraid to ask for help because they do not want to end up locked into any nursing home.
'd rather die than to bear on someone's life.
Even if you would not be able to make myself understood. I tried to talk to me before the mirror and in horror I realized I was not able to make out any sound from my throat. Conceptually
are already dead
[portion of text illegible] but before I physically want the eye to die with me.
After an entire afternoon I did. I reached the toolbox in the closet and I got this screwdriver.
I'll do what needs to be done.
at this time, struggling against the eye, I can include my one and last thought.
's beautiful.
E ' black.
