Incipit:
I start with a personal note, personal, let's say intimate, if not quite sensational, as it could be signed by an army of people.
To get right to the point I resort to music and just to Creep , old and magnificent piece of Radiohead. The refrain of the song says: What the hell am I doin 'here / I do not belong here ...
What am I doing here? I do not belong here.
It 's the feeling I have every day, always. As fatigue when it later. I could confess more, I realize. However, it is a widespread problem. It is a sense of isolation, exclusion and incompatibility (with thin veins ideological) capable of screening out of reach and making the normal lives of others and able to push in a continuous way, as a spin out.
A scathing and incisive text on the northeast, to the waste of lives devoted to consumption, money and image. Screw adapted, hopeless, closed and opaque. Here it is difficult to live for not resettled.
Bugaro describes them, these lives, without judging them openly, it highlights all aspects of how to write a clinical diary, never naming the disease. It is we who we must try to complete the diagnosis. As for therapy, just not there.
The sense of estrangement from the world of the Northeast I agree fully, aware of the accusations of snobbery, which I granted. I have never endured the localism, provincialism, and now that the Lega is the supreme embodiment of localism and provincialism. Can not read the Arena, the journal of my city, the most of the dough, I need to Republic and International. I need to escape, escape. I go on holiday in Greece or abroad, however, to exit a closed world and asphyxiated. I always envied the Tuscan and Emilian's also Mantua, perhaps idealized and mythologized. I understand very short not well-settled in this region ever more degraded as culturally and aesthetically. And, if I had not practical links here, I would change the city and region. In self-imposed exile.
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