InsideMyHead

When I was about 12, Lady Caterina, that's how we addressed her, took me, my sister and her nephews, who happened to be my cousins, to an old country estate partly in ruins, which had belonged to her family since 1861. My cousins and I used to spend a lot of our pleasurable time with her and we loved her very much; everything about Lady Caterina was fun and an adventure. She could be bossy at times −used as she was at giving orders− but she laughed a lot and liked children. The appearance was that of a prima donna and her manners matched her looks: her silvery hair had a strange touch of purple, she talked incessantly in a high pitch voice and was always ready for action, which could take the form of an exquisite cake, a trip to the country or improvised sonatas on the grand piano in her sitting room. That day she came around with her driver in her big car and took us to a sunny, remote and enchanted place. There, the smells and the light, the barking of dogs and the whis...

The evening air was dotted with specks of gold. The sun was tamarind-orange, and the lush trees were moving their branches at the sound of the wind, like dancing arms. ‘What is twisted ?’ asked Astrid on their way home. ‘It’s when you have two possibilities and one is better than the other, but only for you not for anybody else.’ Thor stopped for a few seconds and then added ‘My creator was twisted too and he put it in my system when he made me. I can’t help it. The only way to eradicate it is to reprogramme myself, but it would no longer be me.’ He paused again, ‘You would have to stop calling me Thor.’ Astrid felt trapped, she didn’t want to lose Thor but she didn’t want to end up in the antisocial unit either.   ‘What are we going to do, dear Thor?’ and she started sobbing. ‘We’ll have to lie’ replied Thor speeding the engine up. When she heard that word, Astrid sobs turned into a load cry. At home their favourite meal was sitting in the oven-of-your-dreams tha...

Ho perso la storia, ho perso la trama. Devo avercela avuta una volta, ma ora l’ho persa, così, all’improvviso. Ieri mentre camminavo per strada mi sono accorta di non essere la sola, chiunque su cui posassi lo sguardo o a cui tagliassi la strada non aveva storia. Uomini e donne senza storia, camminavano facendo finta di nulla. I bambini nelle carrozzine sembravano presi a prestito, figli di uomini e donne senza storia, non parlavano. www Oggi ho pensato di andare in Alaska. Ho pensato che forse lì, in mezzo a tutto quel candore, avrei ritrovato la mia storia. Lì, tra quelle case di legno coperte di neve avrei camminato lungo le strade deserte, guardando le vetrine dei bar fumosi con tante facce che ti guardano, e allora sarei entrata dentro uno di quei bar e avrei chiesto se nessuno l’avesse vista passare da l ì . Un uomo mi disse, ‘Ho visto qualcosa di simile 10 anni fa, qualcosa che ti somigliava un po’. Sperando di saperne di più lo guardai e gli offrii da bere....

Quando le più vecchie democrazie voltano la faccia al loro sistema politico c’è da preoccuparsi. Questa perlomeno è la prima reazione a Brexit e a Trump, ma bisogna tornare indietro per capire che in politica ci siamo incamminati lungo la strada del ‘non ci capisco più niente’ da molti anni. E’ difficile risalire alla prima sensazione di irrealtà. Cerco di pensarci ma tutto svanisce in una nuvola di fumo. E’ successo tutto lentamente? O è avvenuto all’improvviso? Non me lo ricordo più. Forse ho perso la memoria ma purtroppo non sono la sola: l’abbiamo persa tutti. ‘C’è qualcosa nell’acqua’ ha detto una volta una mia amica paranoica. No, non è nell’acqua, è sui giornali, sugli schermi televisivi, ed è contagiosa. Si chiama dimenticare il passato. ‘Sarà l’inquinamento’, dice la mia amica paranoica che ha già cambiato idea. ‘Forse’ dico io ‘ma te lo ricordi quando è cominciato? Ti ricordi quando hai cominciato a dimenticare tutto, e a non capirci più niente?’ Ovviamente no, altrimenti...

Here is my effort for Halloween 2016 And those below are biscuits and cakes from my beloved bakery in Crouch End (Dunn's Bakery) where I buy the best bread in London. The prize for the best Halloween house goes to this imaginative and elegant victorian house.

Why I am not upset that Elena Ferrante has come out of the closet, or to be more precise forced out? Is it because I don’t think the smell of mothball is invigorating for a writer, or maybe it’s because any mystery needs a revelation? Ferrante had become so entangled with her literary persona that in my imagination she was just that: a virtual writer who didn’t need to be real. In a world where virtual reality is as real as it gets and personalities become famous by inventing a captivating personas who needs real people? Ferrante was just that: distant, mysterious, unreal. Adoring fans could mould her into their own image: almost a religious experience. So, are you a stressed out, overworked woman? You could be her walking down the shopping mall with two heavy bags of grocery, and she could be just like you. Are you a desk-ridden translator with literary aspirations who spends all God-given hours of the day and night on a laptop: you could be her; it could be you. Oops! In this ...