It 'just came out in bookstores NYX - Tales of the Night, published by Arkadia. It 'an anthology of short stories produced by acclaimed authors such as Michael Murgia, Marcello Fois, Sandrone Dazieri, Otto Gabos, Francesco Abate and Errico Buonanno and other authors who, though less acclaimed, are giants of intellect and physically beautiful (like me, For example, most De Rome, Giammei, Ibrahimi, Lino, Naples, Nepo, Sanna).
Inside the book is published my short story Night of the Future, a tale that explores the utopian and the terror of the Soviet space program, following in the footsteps of Liza Klubnikova cosmonaut, a character modeled on the life of the first woman in space, Valentina Tereshkova.
What follows is the beginning of the story.
Klubnikova My name is Liza. A name whose etymology, a tangle of old Russian and Jewish origins, meaning "God is perfection: strawberries." I admit, is quite nice in its absurdity. Just like me. Perhaps that is why at this crucial day, when the world was seething and shouting like a pressure cooker, my sorrow was very different nature. That afternoon, a psychiatrist friend had managed to pass me a dose of backroom horse Diazepam, passing beyond the wall under the noses of the guards.
got home, I put a little in order, I threw down my medicine together with one or more sips of Stoli. I remember that my living room looked like an old bag and I stayed for a few minutes to meditate on the strange smell of my couch. The editor, that morning, I was informed that copies of my latest novel had finally arrived, fresh print. Scapicollato had to organize in the first presentation of the work day. Since the Committee for the Arts and Entertainment had released a document che certificava pubblicamente il sostanziale fallimento dell’arte della Repubblica Democratica Tedesca, gran parte della scena letteraria aveva semplicemente gettato la spugna, mentre alcuni speranzosi socialisti come l’editore Bieber smaniavano al pensiero di smorzare la depressione delle classi dirigenti con una palata di gloriosa letteratura fantascientifica. Ergo, avrei dovuto dirigermi al Circolo Culturale della Gioventù Comunista alla fine di Jahnstrasse armata del mio Stupefacenti Incontri su Alpha-Epsilon IX e convincere la succitata Gioventù che un'iniezione di storie d’amore venusiane ci avrebbe, in qualche modo, restituito il vigore necessario per rappezzare l’Ideale e dare qualche watt di luminosità al Sole dell’Avvenire.
I stayed to bask on the couch for most of the evening, with the cat curled up on his belly. After the fourth glass of Stolichnaya could not help associating the nightmare of Henry Fuseli. I threw down a few notes in my notebook, to have at least one track to follow during the presentation. I tried to emerge from the morass of memory some interesting anecdote. I stood staring at the framed photographs hanging on the wall and patched. In one of them, Khrushchev shook my hand and I was immortalized as glanced at the huge gap between his teeth. During the shoot, I was torn between the desire to embrace Comrade Nikita, or burst into tears. Maybe I did both. Maybe not. I fell asleep. I woke up. Taken to scribbling a few notes on the notebook. The bottle was mysteriously empty. My nervous system was mysteriously into rubble. Took a deep breath and caracollai to the bathroom. After a cold shower, after an indefinite period of time stringy mop up the mess that is so determined to grow in the head, while the cat tried to blackmail me emotionally to deal yet another dose of food (a habit which he had in common, among other things, the My ex-husband). I left in a hurry and headed on foot to the Jahnstrasse. The cat mewed from the balcony of the house. He was a fine example of a Siamese. When I met him for the first time, investigated between wooden planks, broken, old brooms and beer cans piled up in an alley. Seemed to be engaged in a task of utmost importance. I decided to take care of him. I called Vostok .
got home, I put a little in order, I threw down my medicine together with one or more sips of Stoli. I remember that my living room looked like an old bag and I stayed for a few minutes to meditate on the strange smell of my couch. The editor, that morning, I was informed that copies of my latest novel had finally arrived, fresh print. Scapicollato had to organize in the first presentation of the work day. Since the Committee for the Arts and Entertainment had released a document che certificava pubblicamente il sostanziale fallimento dell’arte della Repubblica Democratica Tedesca, gran parte della scena letteraria aveva semplicemente gettato la spugna, mentre alcuni speranzosi socialisti come l’editore Bieber smaniavano al pensiero di smorzare la depressione delle classi dirigenti con una palata di gloriosa letteratura fantascientifica. Ergo, avrei dovuto dirigermi al Circolo Culturale della Gioventù Comunista alla fine di Jahnstrasse armata del mio Stupefacenti Incontri su Alpha-Epsilon IX e convincere la succitata Gioventù che un'iniezione di storie d’amore venusiane ci avrebbe, in qualche modo, restituito il vigore necessario per rappezzare l’Ideale e dare qualche watt di luminosità al Sole dell’Avvenire.
I stayed to bask on the couch for most of the evening, with the cat curled up on his belly. After the fourth glass of Stolichnaya could not help associating the nightmare of Henry Fuseli. I threw down a few notes in my notebook, to have at least one track to follow during the presentation. I tried to emerge from the morass of memory some interesting anecdote. I stood staring at the framed photographs hanging on the wall and patched. In one of them, Khrushchev shook my hand and I was immortalized as glanced at the huge gap between his teeth. During the shoot, I was torn between the desire to embrace Comrade Nikita, or burst into tears. Maybe I did both. Maybe not. I fell asleep. I woke up. Taken to scribbling a few notes on the notebook. The bottle was mysteriously empty. My nervous system was mysteriously into rubble. Took a deep breath and caracollai to the bathroom. After a cold shower, after an indefinite period of time stringy mop up the mess that is so determined to grow in the head, while the cat tried to blackmail me emotionally to deal yet another dose of food (a habit which he had in common, among other things, the My ex-husband). I left in a hurry and headed on foot to the Jahnstrasse. The cat mewed from the balcony of the house. He was a fine example of a Siamese. When I met him for the first time, investigated between wooden planks, broken, old brooms and beer cans piled up in an alley. Seemed to be engaged in a task of utmost importance. I decided to take care of him. I called Vostok .
