I finally finished The Anarcobuddisti. After 5 years, oblivious to fatigue, blocks of sfigascrittore, various make-up, exchange of securities (previously Five Stars), doubts about the plot, the characters and style changes. My novel The mosaic is finished. Runs between Buddhism, Freemasonry, anarchism, lucid dreaming, feminism and the futility of revenge, but the shocking thing (especially for me) is that I could eventually pull down something with a plot. Unbelievable. It has no pretensions (even if I write more the more I discover that I like writing), has no ambition to be anything but a great novel, rereading a few pages I just met. Recordings will be made on the phone while driving, the random thoughts that have found a place, the reflections that have come in to pick up the train of thought groped. Perhaps
pulp is the right definition, in the end, but who gives a fuck shelf. For me to finish it was a challenge. Now I can throw in something new, something that a plot has it bad, something that deals with suicide and the Riemann zeta, via the self guru. And maybe for a room with a door that opens onto a precipice and the Schrodinger's cat. Meanwhile
The Anarcobuddisti still there, full in front of me. If you read this it means that you know me, so if ever you are interested you can request a pdf copy and I send. With
love, passion and wonder,
jejepà
pulp is the right definition, in the end, but who gives a fuck shelf. For me to finish it was a challenge. Now I can throw in something new, something that a plot has it bad, something that deals with suicide and the Riemann zeta, via the self guru. And maybe for a room with a door that opens onto a precipice and the Schrodinger's cat. Meanwhile
The Anarcobuddisti still there, full in front of me. If you read this it means that you know me, so if ever you are interested you can request a pdf copy and I send. With
love, passion and wonder,
jejepà
