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Oriana

The first novel I read was "Nothing is so" in the seventh grade, found in my grandmother's house during winter influence. I still have it, Feltrinelli edition of the 80 type. There Oriana in Vietnam, with braids, in a tent camp of the American army, dressed as a soldier. She was a journalist, soldier. Her beautiful eyes moving and intense gaze, he saw beyond. I was just a child. But that day I decided that I would have done the journalist, war correspondent, as she did. I wrote pieces on fire inside a military tent, with the notebook on his lap.
Then it was different. Now I'm trying to become psicanalista. Però mi piace fermarmi a pensare a lei. Abitava a New York, e quando ci sono stata non ho nemmeno visto la sua casa. Però mi sono detta "Siamo qui insieme, lei è in qualche casa, in qualche strada di Manatthan." E' Toscana d'origine, come me, anche se io sono mezzo sangue. E anche io vorrei vivere a New York.

Da bambina mi illudevo che in qualche modo lei sapesse che esistevo e che volevo diventare come lei. Che lei era il mio mito, anche se non sono una che fanatizza sui propri miti. Li penso e li adoro in silenzio. In ogni caso Oriana era Oriana. E anche se è stata demonizzata, contestata ed esaltata ha lasciato un buco vuoto quando è andata via. Un buco d'idee e di presenza mentale. Forse era una tiranna, an uncompromising, whatever you want. But his way of writing his own thought had a mix of authenticity and pragmatism, clarity and strength, courage and poetry that every reader recognizes them as trademarks. Oriana was a Florentine in New York and this says it all. In his genius, the genius of the Tuscan but their roughness. I want to read it again and nothing is so enchanted with the eyes of a preteen. Then I heard here Oriana, again.