Manual Seamus Heaney. Terra di palude. Poesie: NO ORIGINAL FRONT-PAGE TEXT.

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E conta: il tempo, alle formiche: uno, due, tre, quattro, ino a venti: altra formica, schiacciata. Massacra le formiche, e guarda il mare. Sembra uno che riflette, intensamente. E schiaccia la formica. Non riflette. II mare e scuro, appena siorato dalle luci di una nave che va via. Dalla Mercedes lo guardano Il Grasso, e la sua banda: cinque paia di occhi che scoppiano, arrossati e gonfi. La Mercedes prosegue, lenta, per una decina di metri. Si ferma. Pare che pensi.

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Ma non pensa. Sem- bra un sacco pieno di roba molle, pronto ad aprirsi sulla pancia, Il Grasso. Dal basso, vengono due gambe gonfie e flaccide. In cima, coperta dai capelli appiccicati, una palla di ciccia, che dentro ha due cerchietti neri che sembrano appuntati cogli spilli: due occhi, immobili, in una faccia di lardo.

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Nessuna espressione, tranne un ghigno ebete che non si muove mai. Trema continuamente, II Grasso: i muscoli e il lardo sono agitati da un ritmo proprio, nevrastenico, automatico.

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It gifted me with a nocturnal image, inhabited by a mono- maniacal … The shoe of that man is high, up to the neck of the foot. The sole crushes an ant. Then another ant. The ants come out of a crack from between two large square stones and arrange themselves under the foot.

He crushes them, one after the other, with metro- nomic regularity. The man, standing behind the grate of the port, looks out at the sea. And he counts: time, to the ants: one, two, three, four, up to twenty: another ant crushed. He is tall, wrapped in some black thing that falls to his rain shoes, high up to the neck of the foot. He massacres ants, and looks out to the sea.

He looks like someone who thinks about things in an intense manner. Instead, he simply counts: to twenty. And he crushes ants. He never has, in his whole life. The sea is dark, lightly touched by the lights of a ship sailing away. The man looks out at the ship.

Slowly, a yellow Mercedes passes behind the man. From the Mercedes the Fat Man and his gang look at him: ive pairs of exploding eyes, red and swollen. The Mercedes drives on slowly for another thirty or so feet. It stops. It looks like he is thinking. But he is not.

phon-er.com/js/kindle-vs/change-alarm-tone-on-blackberry-curve.php The Fat Man slides out of the back seat of the Mercedes: a slow process: irst one foot, then the other, slowly. He looks like a sack full of soft stuff, ready to split open at his belly. The Fat Man. Two swollen and laccid legs rise from below. Up above, covered by greasy hair, is a ball of lesh, in it are two little black circles that seems to be attached with pins: two immobile eyes, set into a face of lard. His skin is yellowish, bruised. No expression, besides an unlinching moronic sneer.

He trembles constantly, the Fat Man: his muscles and lard shake to their own rhythm, hyper, automatic. Guarda il mare.

E ammazza le formiche. Dieci minuti, buoni, e lentissimi, prima che II Grasso apra bocca. So che devo aspettare al Polpo, ogni sera, per poterti parlare. Mi dispiace davvero, disturbarti Un attimo Ho bisogno di dieci chili.

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Tutti in una volta. E subito.

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Per uno che parte fra due ore. A qualunque prezzo. Senza limite in alto. A me, mi basta il dieci del bisnass. Non potevo fare altro. Non pretendo di assistere alla vendita Io ti mando il bisnass, e aspetto in macchina Anche gratis. La voce: una specie di cantilena, un pianto. Non si muove di un centimetro. The man, as if no-one else is there, beside him. He looks out to the sea. And kills ants. Ten minutes, a good ten, and very slow, before the Fat Man even opens his mouth.

I know that I have to wait for the Octopus, every night, in order to talk to you. He is quiet. A moment… The man looks out to sea, as if he were alone. I need 10 kg. All at once. And right away.