Newsgroup: it.media.tv
Titolo: Re: ATTENZIONE!! Alle 16:55 ora di Washington si ride!!!


lol... ma umilio fede lo farà vedere in diretta? 

 Bush e del nano dal prato della Casa Bianca!!
"massivan"
Il leader di Mediaset, de "Il Giornale",
di Mondadori, di Panorama, non che
vice-re d'Italia per conto dell' impero
ha affermato: "Bush passerà alla storia".
Per aver impoverito e affamato le
moltitudini,  per aver lasciato senza casa,
senza pensione, senza lavoro milioni di
suoi concittadini, per aver raddoppiato
( portandolo a 28 milioni) il numero
di suoi connazionali che vivono grazie
alla tessera annonaria (food-stamp).

 alla tessera annonaria (food-stamp).
     Cosa ne dici di leggere qualcosa?
 
http://www.repubblica.it/2008/10/sezioni/spettacoli_e_cultura/america-zucconi/america-zucconi/america-zucconi.html
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http://www.repubblica.it/2008/10/sezioni/spettacoli_e_cultura/america-zucconi/america-zucconi/america-zucconi.html
"massivan"
Leggere per leggere non leggerò mai
nulla scritto dalla dinastia giornalistica
di venduti che sono gli Zucconi.
Ti passo qualcosa di valido; il
primo capitolo.
Tender is the Night (1933)
F. Scott Fitzgerald
Already with thee! tender is the night...
... But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
 --Ode to a Nightingale
TO GERALD and SARA
MANY FÊTES
BOOK 1
I
On the pleasant shore of the French Riviera, about half way between
Marseilles and the Italian border, stands a large, proud, rose- colored
hotel. Deferential palms cool its flushed façade, and before it stretches
 a short dazzling beach. Lately it has become a summer resort of
notable and fashionable people; a decade ago it was almost deserted
 after its English clientele went north in April. Now, many bungalows
 cluster near it, but when this story begins only the cupolas of a dozen
 old villas rotted like water lilies among the massed pines between
Gausse's Hôtel des Étrangers and Cannes, five miles away.
 The hotel and its bright tan prayer rug of a beach were one. In the
early morning the distant image of Cannes, the pink and cream of old
fortifications, the purple Alp that bounded Italy, were cast across the
water and lay quavering in the ripples and rings sent up by sea-plants
 through the clear shallows. Before eight a man came down to the
 beach in a blue bathrobe and with much preliminary application to his
person of the chilly water, and much grunting and loud breathing,
floundered a minute in the sea. When he had gone, beach and bay
 were quiet for an hour. Merchantmen crawled westward on the
 horizon; bus boys shouted in the hotel court; the dew dried upon the
 pines. In another hour the horns of motors began to blow down from
 the winding road along the low range of the Maures, which separates
 the littoral from true Provençal France.
 A mile from the sea, where pines give way to dusty poplars, is an
 isolated railroad stop, whence one June morning in 1925 a victoria
 brought a woman and her daughter down to Gausse's Hotel.
The mother's face was of a fading prettiness that would soon be
patted with broken veins; her expression was both tranquil and
aware in a pleasant way. However, one's eye moved on quickly
 to her daughter, who had magic in her pink palms and her cheeks
 lit to a lovely flame, like the thrilling flush of children after their
cold baths in the evening. Her fine forehead sloped gently up to
where her hair, bordering it like an armorial shield, burst into
 lovelocks and waves and curlicues of ash blonde and gold.
Her eyes were bright, big, clear, wet, and shining, the color
of her cheeks was real, breaking close to the surface from the
strong young pump of her heart. Her body hovered delicately
 on the last edge of childhood--she was almost eighteen, nearly
 complete, but the dew was still on her.
 As sea and sky appeared below them in a thin, hot line the
mother said:
 "Something tells me we're not going to like this place."
 "I want to go home anyhow," the girl answered.
 They both spoke cheerfully but were obviously without direction
 and bored by the fact--moreover, just any direction would not do.
 They wanted high excitement, not from the necessity of stimulating
jaded nerves but with the avidity of prize-winning schoolchildren
 who deserved their vacations.
 "We'll stay three days and then go home. I'll wire right away for
 steamer tickets."
 At the hotel the girl made the reservation in idiomatic but rather
 flat French, like something remembered. When they were
 installed on the ground floor she walked into the glare of the
 French windows and out a few steps onto the stone veranda
that ran the length of the hotel. When she walked she carried
 herself like a ballet- dancer, not slumped down on her hips
but held up in the small of her back. Out there the hot light clipped
close her shadow and she retreated--it was too bright to see.
 Fifty yards away the Mediterranean yielded up its pigments,
moment by moment, to the brutal sunshine; below the balustrade
 a faded Buick cooked on the hotel drive.
 Indeed, of all the region only the beach stirred with activity.
 Three British nannies sat knitting the slow pattern of Victorian
 England, the pattern of the forties, the sixties, and the eighties,
 into sweaters and socks, to the tune of gossip as formalized as
 incantation; closer to the sea a dozen persons kept house under
striped umbrellas, while their dozen children pursued unintimidated
fish through the shallows or lay naked and glistening with cocoanut
oil out in the sun.
 As Rosemary came onto the beach a boy of twelve ran past her
and dashed into the sea with exultant cries. Feeling the impactive
scrutiny of strange faces, she took off her bathrobe and followed.
 She floated face down for a few yards and finding it shallow
staggered to her feet and plodded forward, dragging slim legs
 like weights against the resistance of the water. When it was
about breast high, she glanced back toward shore: a bald man in
 a monocle and a pair of tights, his tufted chest thrown out, his
brash navel sucked in, was regarding her attentively. As Rosemary
 returned the gaze the man dislodged the monocle, which went into
 hiding amid the facetious whiskers of his chest, and poured himself
a glass of something from a bottle in his hand.
 Rosemary laid her face on the water and swam a choppy little
 four- beat crawl out to the raft. The water reached up for her,
 pulled her down tenderly out of the heat, seeped in her hair and
ran into the corners of her body. She turned round and round in it,
embracing it, wallowing in it. Reaching the raft she was out of breath,
 but a tanned woman with very white teeth looked down at her,
and Rosemary, suddenly conscious of the raw whiteness of her
own body, turned on her back and drifted toward shore.
The hairy man holding the bottle spoke to her as she came out.
 "I say--they have sharks out behind the raft." He was of indeterminate
 nationality, but spoke English with a slow Oxford drawl.
"Yesterday they devoured two British sailors from the flotte
at Golfe Juan."
 "Heavens!" exclaimed Rosemary.
 "They come in for the refuse from the flotte."
 Glazing his eyes to indicate that he had only spoken in
order to warn her, he minced off two steps and poured
 himself another drink.
 Not unpleasantly self-conscious, since there had been a
 slight sway of attention toward her during this conversation,
Rosemary looked for a place to sit. Obviously each family
possessed the strip of sand immediately in front of its umbrella;
besides there was much visiting and talking back and forth--the
 atmosphere of a community upon which it would be presumptuous
 to intrude. Farther up, where the beach was strewn with pebbles
 and dead sea-weed, sat a group with flesh as white as her own.
 They lay under small hand-parasols instead of beach umbrellas
and were obviously less indigenous to the place. Between the
dark people and the light, Rosemary found room and spread out
 her peignoir on the sand.
 Lying so, she first heard their voices and felt their feet skirt her
body and their shapes pass between the sun and herself. The
breath of an inquisitive dog blew warm and nervous on her neck;
she could feel her skin broiling a little in the heat and hear the small
 exhausted wa-waa of the expiring waves. Presently her ear
distinguished individual voices and she became aware that some
one referred to scornfully as "that North guy" had kidnapped a
waiter from a café in Cannes last night in order to saw him in two.
The sponsor of the story was a white-haired woman in full evening
dress, obviously a relic of the previous evening, for a tiara still clung
to her head and a discouraged orchid expired from her shoulder.
 Rosemary, forming a vague antipathy to her and her companions,
 turned away.
 Nearest her, on the other side, a young woman lay under a roof
of umbrellas making out a list of things from a book open on the sand.
 Her bathing suit was pulled off her shoulders and her back, a ruddy,
 orange brown, set off by a string of creamy pearls, shone in the sun.
 Her face was hard and lovely and pitiful. Her eyes met Rosemary's
 but did not see her. Beyond her was a fine man in a jockey cap and
 red-striped tights; then the woman Rosemary had seen on the raft,
 and who looked back at her, seeing her; then a man with a long face
 and a golden, leonine head, with blue tights and no hat, talking very
seriously to an unmistakably Latin young man in black tights, both
of them picking at little pieces of seaweed in the sand. She thought
they were mostly Americans, but something made them unlike the
Americans she had known of late.
 After a while she realized that the man in the jockey cap was giving
a quiet little performance for this group; he moved gravely about with
a rake, ostensibly removing gravel and meanwhile developing some
esoteric burlesque held in suspension by his grave face. Its faintest
 ramification had become hilarious, until whatever he said released a
 burst of laughter. Even those who, like herself, were too far away to
 hear, sent out antennæ of attention until the only person on the beach
 not caught up in it was the young woman with the string of pearls.
Perhaps from modesty of possession she responded to each salvo
 of amusement by bending closer over her list.
 The man of the monocle and bottle spoke suddenly out of the sky
 above Rosemary.
 "You are a ripping swimmer."
 She demurred.
 "Jolly good. My name is Campion. Here is a lady who says she saw
 you in Sorrento last week and knows who you are and would so like
 to meet you."
 Glancing around with concealed annoyance Rosemary saw the
 untanned people were waiting. Reluctantly she got up and went
over to them.
 "Mrs. Abrams--Mrs. McKisco--Mr. McKisco--Mr. Dumphry-- 
"We know who you are," spoke up the woman in evening dress.
 "You're Rosemary Hoyt and I recognized you in Sorrento and
asked the hotel clerk and we all think you're perfectly marvellous
 and we want to know why you're not back in America making
another marvellous moving picture."
 They made a superfluous gesture of moving over for her. The
woman who had recognized her was not a Jewess, despite her
name. She was one of those elderly "good sports" preserved by
an imperviousness to experience and a good digestion into another
generation. "We wanted to warn you about getting burned the first
day," she continued cheerily, "because YOUR skin is important,
but there seems to be so darn much formality on this beach that
we didn't know whether you'd mind."

 Previsto un nuovo "ai consider desd de fleg ov iunaid sdeis nos onli..."!!!
Si era già avuto un antipasto: "Bush è un grande presidente".

 Previsto un nuovo "ai consider desd de fleg ov iunaid sdeis nos onli..."!!!
Fede iersera ha anticipato che, a cena, il nano concederà un'esibizione 
canora.
Qualcuno sa se poi è scoppiata la guerra Usa-Italia?
m.
-- 
"La legge, in Italia, è come l'onore delle puttane"
(Curzio Malaparte)