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Tell me a story There was once a man who sold stories. They didn’t cost much and most of the time he would even give them away. Nobody knew from where he came, some people said from the North, others that he was from another planet. He was a small man with a round face and eyes that were close together. He would stop passers-by and say: “I have a story for you, it won’t cost you much”, so that even if you didn’t feel the need, you would stop because you were curious. So he would come close and whisper some words in your ear and then stretch out his hand and that’s how he would get some money. I thought it was silly and also a little dishonest to sell stories like that, until I decided to buy one too. He looked me straight in the eyes as if he was looking for something, I felt uncomfortable and I didn’t have any money in my pocket. “Tell me a story”, I said. He smiled at me and without saying anything he left, leaving me there. In the days that followed I tried to find him but there were no traces of him. Some people said that they had seen him get on the first train for the cities in the West, others swear that they met him on the road not long ago. In all these years we have often talked of him and his stories. Our children know them all by heart, without really understanding who that man was. They have started inventing fairy tales and legends about him. One starts like this. There was once a man who sold stories. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> Raccontami una storia C’era una volta un uomo che vendeva storie. Non costavano molto e il più delle volte addirittura le regalava. Nessuno sapeva da dove fosse arrivato, qualcuno diceva dal Nord, altri che fosse di un altro pianeta. Era un uomo piccolo con il volto tondo e gli occhi stretti. Fermava i passanti e diceva: “Ho una storia per te, non ti costerà molto”, così anche se uno non ne sentiva il bisogno, almeno per curiosità si fermava. Allora lui si avvicinava e sussurrava delle parole all’orecchio e poi allungava la mano e raccoglieva così qualche moneta. Mi sembrava sciocco e anche un po’ disonesto mettersi a vendere delle storie così, fino a che non decisi di comprarne una anch’io. Mi guardava fisso negli occhi come se cercasse qualcosa, ero a disagio e non avevo soldi in tasca. “Raccontami una storia”, gli dissi. Lui mi sorrise e senza dire niente se ne andò, lasciandomi lì. Provai nei giorni successivi a cercarlo ma di lui non c’era traccia. Qualcuno diceva di averlo visto salire sul primo treno per le città dell’ovest, altri scommettono di averlo incontrato per strada non molto tempo fa. In tutti questi anni abbiamo parlato spesso di lui e delle sue storie, i nostri figli le conoscono a memoria, senza capire davvero chi fosse quell’uomo. Su di lui hanno cominciato a inventare fiabe e leggende. Una comincia così. C’era una volta un uomo che vendeva storie. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> 14 / 15
Wrinkles Grinze A flaccid body is never attractive. I had a nanny, when I was little, she must have been seventy, but she seemed very old to me. Occasionally we would take a nap on the big bed, both of us together. While sleeping, if I happened to brush against her legs or her lap, I would jerk awake and pull back horrified. And yet I like wrinkles, those from expression I mean, belonging to people who carry their years with pride, displayed on their foreheads or around their lips. But a wrinkly body, soft, flabby is something that I can’t stand. It literally horrifies me. I would do anything to avoid it, even die young. Those sagging thighs and thin skin, those bodies that are no longer toned remind me of the inevitability of death. Death doesn’t scare me as much as the idea of ending up with a sea of wrinkles on my body. My nanny died when she was over ninety, happy and wrinkled. Maybe she was right. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> Un corpo flaccido non è mai attraente. Avevo una tata, quando ero piccolo, sarà stata sui settanta, ma a me pareva vecchissima. Ogni tanto capitava che andassimo a fare il pisolino nel lettone, lei ed io insieme. Se nel sonno mi capitava di sfiorare le sue gambe, o il suo grembo, mi svegliavo di soprassalto e mi ritraevo orripilato. Eppure le rughe mi piacciono, quelle d’espressione intendo, di chi si porta gli anni con orgoglio esibiti sulla fronte o sul contorno delle labbra. Ma il corpo grinzoso, molle, sfatto è qualcosa che non sopporto. Mi fa letteralmente orrore. Farei qualsiasi cosa per evitarlo, anche morire giovane. Quelle cosce cadenti, quella pelle sottile, quei corpi non più sodi mi ricordano inevitabilmente la morte. La morte non mi spaventa quanto la prospettiva di finire con un mare di rughe sul corpo. La mia tata è morta a più di novanta anni, felice e rugosa. Forse aveva ragione lei. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> 16 / 17
Page 1: FAB MAGAZINE / MAY-JUNE 2004
Page 4: 1 5 9 12 7 8 10 11 2 6 15 14 3 4 //
Page 7 and 8: My grandmother broke chickens’ ne
Page 9: New Year’s Eve San Silvestro On N
Page 13 and 14: Vinho Vinho While I was sinking the
Page 15 and 16: Fire Il fuoco My parents have been
Page 17 and 18: + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
Page 20 and 21: 01_Gratification *EACH SINGLE TYPE
Page 22 and 23: 04.05_Portraits shot for calendar o
Page 24 and 25: Namikon ---------------------------
Page 26 and 27: 2 1 3 7 4 5 6 // L'Oréal Paris. Be
Page 28 and 29: 1 Every day Fabrica students go eat
Page 30 and 31: CHORUS/ CORO // CHORUS/ CORO // Roa
Page 32 and 33: SOLO / ASSOLO // SOLO / ASSOLO //Cy
Page 34 and 35: ----- ----- WHAT MUSIC SOLVED A PRO
Page 36 and 37: A new day in FABRICA, the creative
Page 38 and 39: Creativity is unusual It frightens.

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