LOVE SLEEPING IN BREAST OF THE POET – By Federico García Lorca You can never understand how much I love you, because in myself you sleep and you remains asleep. I will hide in tears, haunted by a voice of penetrating steel. Accordance that shakes together, flesh and star, already pierces my chest pained, and the gloomy words have bitten …

Yes, even the soul has its wounds. This tells us a French neuropsychiatrist – Boris Cyrulnik – the innovator of the circuits invisible of emotions and feelings. Not with poems, and not even with a novel, he takes us on pages full of sense. http://www.amazon.it/Parlare-damore-sullorlo-dellabisso-Cyrulnik/dp/8876848703 Almost as an architect, but without using brick and reinforced concrete, the physician-writer reminds us …

ROOMS ILLUMINATE – P. von Heyse: Endure, is patient quiet. In a time, your room will be full of sun. TRUSTING – J. Thorarensen: Although I fail to see placate the storms of life, moved, I listen to the laughter of my hopes. THE IMPOSSIBLE – M. Kundera: We can write and love, in spite of the impossibility of writing, …

Jane Austen, 42 years of earthly light, a well known English narrator, an immortality of words and emotions, which is not dead in the summer of 1817. He grew up in a home environment culturally vibrant, opening its vast horizon of words in a vast library family. In 1793 she has already completed its “juvenilia”, a collection of her poems, …

CONTAINERS – GWF Hegel: There is nothing in heaven and on earth, that does not contain the being and nothingness. CRADLES – A. Porta: Cradle of my nothingness, into the nothingness of the cradle, smooth dwelling, without powder nothing. ANYWHERE – Silhana, Indian text: Nothing here, nothing else. Wherever I go, nowhere. The universe itself is nothing. And nothing down …

Call me Peppe. Really, my name is Giuseppe. Nice to have you among those who read me, and thanks to Meeting Benches, offering to those who want it, the ability to publish something. I’ll tell you – in short – the story of a path suspended above the sea, but you will not forget, accompanying me, that we are walking …

For more than half a century, a piece of blue has turned to the gym, that is, in a certain way of life. I have exactly the same age, and in my years I have seen grow – without realizing it – all the nuances of what clove color, suspended between sky and sea. Nice to meet you, my name …

Pico is in the pages of a new book, one written by Giulio Busi and Raphael Ebgi. Giovanni Pico della Mirandola died in a November day in 1494, at the age of 31 years, but after more than five centuries, for him, is not only his proverbial memory. In his portraits, we can observe a handsome man, in his writings …

An ancient game, with its strict discipline, the game of billiards. Four sides and a soft rectangular field, softly green. Inside it run colored marbles, those that the player hits with an auction – the stick – or throwing with his hands, trying to understand the point to hit. Tic-tac, above the color of grass, the imagination of the possible …

Imagine a cylindrical object, made with wood. Imagine that niche, divided into two distinct parts. Imagine a human infant, unwanted by his parents, put in one of those two parts. Imagine a hand of mother, who runs the mechanism of wood, giving the piety that had grown in her womb of woman. Here, what you have imagined, existed for centuries …