QWhen we were young reporters, Sandro Bondi was one of our favorite victims. His zeal for Berlusconi and his love of poetry attracted easy irony.
Actually, Bondi was a leading man of Berlusconi: he was the first in 2006 to launch the proposal to re-nominate Napolitano, then triumphantly re-elected and denied by Forza Italia; a bit like what happened to Bondi himself.
In the Senate I remember him hand in hand – Bondi in love title The Espresso – with a party colleague, Manuela Repettishe too then withdrew to the sidelines, away from politics, after having engaged in battles for civil rights and in favor of animals.
Now Repetti has written a novel. I also read it as an expiation for the teasing I had reserved for his man.
And I discovered a good book, even a brave one. Because Martha’s reassurances faces the taboo of the homicidal instinct of the human being, theorized by a French writer dear to the author, Octave Mirbeau.
From the first page, the novel breathes a suspended, waiting atmosphere, until something unexpected happens. More than a yellow or a thriller, it could be called a noir. The fear of death pushes, in an attempt to exorcise it, to approach it, to know it with the illusion of managing it and therefore of being less afraid of it.
The protagonist is a forty-year-old journalist, Marta, who rents a house in a well-known place on the Ligurian Riviera (the house that the author herself rented for a stay where she began writing), in a period of low season and therefore semi-deserted; there she meets by chance a young couple from which a web of personal relationships is born linked by their respective anxieties.
It is a novel about our contemporaneity, but at the same time about the elements of our irredeemable ancestral dimension. And finally you understand why Bondi wisely left Berlusconi for the author of this book.
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All articles by Aldo Cazzullo
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