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Vacuum energy. Interview with Bruno Arpaia

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... a particle can enter the stage, however, doing so, it bends and changes, so the stage in turn becomes an actor, changing the characteristics of particle ...

Delving into the pages of the new Bruno Arpaia's novel is like climbing up on a rock overlooking the sea, driven by gusts to nowhere Wind unfriendly and abrupt. It is just in time to get accustomed to literary narrative that, suddenly, there he meets formulas, numbers, definitions. The physics of water that you soak the words speaking part under the skin of the player. The abrupt changes of scene, as well as the irregular movement on the timeline, the story accelerates. Social roles inverted with an attentive father and present in the life of a mother and son swallowed up by the underground at CERN. Emilia's work opens a hole in the marriage relationship, resulting in Peter the torment of loneliness. The metaphors that distributes Arpaia wise alternation along the narrative involves the reader into the heart of the story: the physics. About not accustomed to science, neutrinos, quarks, strings and gravity could be afraid of getting lost in the street, they do not understand, get bored. Not so. Scientific explanations are left to the simple and direct words of Emily and his collaborators, aims to explain their mysterious profession to a English journalist. Read these pages is like watching a tutorial, populated by signs on the blackboard, slide on the screen, hands raised to question. The answers come without presumption, there are few certainties and many doubts. And then the plot, an escape - for no apparent reason - a succession of provincial roads, rural, small towns, phone turned off and watchful eyes. Peter and his son race against time, against a mystery that can not resolve, since he can rely only on instinct. Emilia suddenly turns into a brave soldier, without much conviction. It relies on a fate that may already be written, because sometimes, past, present and future overlap.

Vacuum, with its energy, is at the heart of this novel, even in a vacuum because there is something to be discovered. As in life, even in science there is the flip of a second. When pages are tinged with smoke, terrorism, fundamentalist and international intrigue, the beating of an intuition change the lives of the protagonists.

"Vacuum energy" (published by Bloomsbury Publishing) is one of those texts that children should study in school to learn that life, science, literature, feelings, nothing more that are different faces of the same solid .

Physics is often considered a niche topic, for experienced experts. Reading your novel, however, there encounters a world full of charm and transparency. It almost seems that scientific curiosity is inherent in all of us in latent form. What leads to explosion of this feeling?

Perhaps the fact that contemporary physics, beyond its technicalities, for experts, returned to ask the fundamental questions, those that are already placed and the Presocratics that beset us today, what we are, where we come from, what really matter, space, time? Moreover, the physical is only a way as any to explore the boundaries of ourselves and our world, to experience adventure and a passion for knowledge. During the twentieth century, in fact, relativity and quantum mechanics have revolutionized our world and even the way we think the science itself. Today science, just like art, uses a lot of imagination, dealing with both of truth and beauty, is more uncertain, indeterminate more mysterious. In short, as John Banville wrote, "at a certain level, essential, art and science are so close that it is difficult to distinguish."

greater importance in the narrative from the events and not their chronological order. What does it mean for you, time?

For me it obsession, the real spring that pushes me to write, thus representing fil rouge of all my novels. I think anyone who tell stories dealing with a self-evident: that there is a time and that our life is lived as long. Telling stories, in short, it means dealing with the time, that time in our life comes to an end. Therefore, the physical theories, Einstein on, bring into question the "absolute time" and the objective was talking about Newton, or even put in doubt the very existence of time should be part of the baggage of any storyteller. In this book I have tried, with the weapons of the narrative, to bring the reader the possibility of a different time from our common perception of a time, so to speak, more fundamental, a "proper time" as Einstein called it . Everyone can read the second novel by mounting their own special time, perhaps discovering that the unbroken line that goes from past to future through the present (which is the common way of perceiving time for us westerners) could be only one ' illusion.

are doubtful, physicists. and doubt that comes the desire to experience?

course. Only fundamentalists, religious or not, believe they already have all the answers: more questions they chip away at the closed system, all-encompassing, and consequently their power. For this reason they are afraid and try to impose their dogma at all costs. How do I tell one of my characters, "I think it is telling, like science, to complicated questions in the world, leading to more complicated questions and never answers a final and certain. "

Your style is an element of originality in the contemporary literary scene. Mix metaphors with scientific terminology and refined elegance and speed. Do you feel more attracted by the narrative or knowledge?

I do not think storytelling and knowledge are two antithetical concepts. Indeed. The narrative is perhaps the oldest instrument of knowledge of humanity can processing and transmitting passions, emotions, reason, and above all experience, which, as Walter Benjamin said already in the thirties of the twentieth century, it is precisely what modern man has been deprived. The story, in short, is a great form of knowledge, serves to ensure that the experience should not be entirely lost. It is basically a way to oppose the death. If we were immortal, maybe not telling stories. Meanwhile, order in the chaos of a life story, we learn to know her better and to discover ourselves and reality.

Barbara Greggio

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A sick world

Yara is dead.

In a cold afternoon Carnervale his body, frail and thin, was found by accident. Hidden in the weeds and mud of a field at the edge of the stream Dordi. Hardly recognizable.

Yara slept his sleep more painful than a few miles from home, alone.

They have ripped the life to 13 years off his sincere smile, wiping his dreams.

everything stopped one evening in November, the fog lapped the houses and scattered noises.

walked quiet, Yara, toward the warmth of his family. Trampled its own steps, those made un'infintà of times before, leaving behind the gym. He walked towards a terrible and undeserved fate.

Someone saw her that night, maybe. There is no certainty dented car, the two guys who were fighting, the presence of Yara beside them. Testimonials innattendibili, investigators said.

A face without a name 's has taken that night in November, a month from Christmas. He pulled into the abyss of violence, outrage, denial. He thrust into the darkness of fear without thinking that she, after all, was only a child. He has violated such a prohibition is violated, without humanity.

was not to blame, Yara.

artificial lights of the investigators have searched everywhere, the dogs sniffed its presence in and around a construction site, a man was arrested - and immediately set free because unconnected with the facts.

The parents had chosen the path of faith. Faith in God and in justice. No interviews, only one appeal full of hope and pain.

The newspapers had circulated pictures of the little Yara, until his death he had stopped doing news, and then space to another.

The television had filled their schedules with the planting of Brembo Mapello the yard, with the entrance of the gym. Sent to every corner of the country, around like pawns on a chessboard. They asked, digging into the past a clear and spotless, trying to understand the incomprehensible. Without scruples, of course. Everything was stock. In the wake of Avetrana tried to broadcast the show Brembate. Failed. No public statements, a few photos of Yara, always the same, always happy, her.

But no, it was the happiest little Yara. He slept restlessly, her.

Now that his fate was revealed, cold and unforgiving, Yara will return to Brembate, where his family can mourn without respite.

Yara, Sarah, Thomas, Ciccio e Tore. Young lives snatched recklessly, or for very little money for a game that went wrong. Envy, lust and ignorance.

must reflect on these losses, sull'efferatezza hand them have been made, leaving the void in this world.

There is something unhealthy today. Something rotten and irrational and perverse weapon labile psyche of many people.

You can not kill for sex, jealousy or money.

We can no longer continue to pretend that the evil of our country are the escort, corrupt politics and the players do not sing the anthem. The mud of

pervesione be cleaned.

must cure the minds, washing away the foul, to stop in time those who risk getting lost in the darkness of the crime.

must prevent. We

potreggere our children, providing them with this safe, be handed over to a better future.

Somewhere there is a right way, it's up to us all and go find it and stop and stop looking over your navel. Together.

Barbara Greggio.

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Rebirth

Tempera on paper.

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Tempera on glass.

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The nave

The city opened before his eyes without notice. The heat of the asphalt mix the vertical edges of the buildings, casting reflections on the river diagonally. The medieval walls surrounding the town in a series of lace and small towers.

Mantua is offered to the patient looks distracted people. Many of the crossing as it crosses the aisle of a supermarket, concentrated on the flyer of the event.

parked just after the bridge, turn right along a narrow road without curves. Light leaned my shadow on the cobblestones, drawing a hologram fleeting. The map of the city soon proved to be useless, all the streets flowed mysteriously in one place with no name or reference. I spent three times before the same bar, weaving many diagonals of the square. The heat rising from the ankles down arms, coloring the face of anger and frustration.

got to the church that the sun was going down behind the buildings. The pavement was designed to square, the bar tables occupied part of the entrance, with insolence and indolence. The facade, fresh color, hiding inside an abandoned and the limits of decadence. Single aisle leading to the old altar, no hanging covered the walls. At the foot of what had once been the pulpit, dust and debris were piled. Instead of benches were blue plastic chairs, worn smooth in the session. I was alone inside. I closed my eyes and imagined the baroque splendor of the pipe organ, the white dress of a bride emotions, genuine cry of a newborn to the baptismal font.

He came in shortly after, followed by a small group of colleagues and friends. He wore a black dress, to walk a couple of sneakers. I felt the tension eat the breaths, his eyes fixed on the stage. He looked at me and immediately turned my head away, unable to support his dark eyes fixed on me. Including only then that the insistence his eyes hid the need to give a name to my face. He spoke well, he was smiling at every stop of his interviewer. The tinkling of bracelets around his wrist accompanied the tale of his travels, like a timid music. He defended his troubled mind, shifting the focus away on anecdotes. There was more in his voice, the search for peace ahead. He smiled a smile that drew open deep wrinkles at the corners of the mouth.

Being a few feet from him made me nervous.

The man sitting next to me was clear and damaged fingers, around the nails he drew away layers of skin until it bled. Just beyond were two women passionate and serene.

His voice stirred in me the desire to be alone with him, I would have wanted his words to calm the restless motions of my soul. It did not happen, of course. I dreamed of our meeting the night before, and had not been a good dream. The reality was very different.

got off the stage with an athletic leap. He jumped off the platform with ease, was in a hurry to go out. He turned to me, I looked for a moment that suspended time in the church. I turned on the other side, her back to him. That was not the time, not how. I wanted a minute to myself. I joined him later, just in time for me to surround by a dozen admirers impatient and overheated. I introduced myself to him, and it was useless. He already knew who I was, I do not know how or why, but I had recognized.

was a moment and smiled.

He shook my hand in his, taking a long and solid. His face became severe.

he spoke, of course. I just nodded without replying. His words sank in the muscles of the back, slipping under the skin. I stood motionless, listening to the same speech that I had a dream the night before. The people around me eavesdropping. I felt ridiculed by their looks of pity.

not looked into his eyes, I remember just now. I concentrated on the thin lips. I could describe in detail how insignificant, its mouth. It always happens to fix lips, teeth, chin in my party, and then lose what really counts: the eyes. I greeted him and went quickly, well straight away, head held high. I did not turn, and I abandoned myself to tears of defeat. I had gone over the imaginary wall that he had erected between us. I turned the corner and I appeared before without permission. It was not arrogance, my. I need this damn concrete, the need to put faces to voices. I was ill-balanced thoughts, guided by the desire to meet him. He was my special viewer, the one sitting in the middle of the audience, bored and impatient. I wanted to win as you conquer the smile of a child. I had the malice of arriving, nor the coldness of the calculation. In my heart I had the strength to those who believed in me, embracing the objectivity of Catia, the dream kind of Elisa, the wisdom of saving Ilene, her hands thick Emanuele.

He could not know.

While scratched the wall of my confused mind, he punished my face still.

stupid and reckless I screwed up my dream, leaving for him to throw it land. I cried on my defeat more.

I did not want a yes from him, just as now. I wanted a moment of truth, a glimpse of sunshine in a dark thread of telefono.Volevo him, his eyes on mine, his honesty. I did not care anything about his can not.

not happened, not happened.

the weeks went by, the resentful. He seemed happy, had it not with me anymore.

Something had changed.

If you met him yet, of course, looked into his eyes.

Barbara Greggio

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Call me love again. Roberto Vecchioni. The path on the ridge

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Barbara Greggio

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The road uphill climb on a hill disorderly and battered, the broken branches of trees hanging into the void, tickling the top of a cliff. The white halo of the moon spits out a circle of light abandoned on the steps leading to the small convent of Capuchin. He walks slowly, alternating the steps of the long pauses of terror. The taxes which gave the port were closed, the doors combined escaped some glitter of candles. I did not meet anyone.

Maria slept four way higher, in our house on the rock. Breathe slowly into sleep, fall asleep every night looking at the statue of St. Francis, who filled the vacuum window to the south. His hair was long and thin, twisted below the shoulder blades, to feet wore wooden shoes and leather, they slammed to the ground with grace and modesty. He was young, although it was already a mother of two children: my. Michelangelo and Leonardo, we called them so in the hope that their names be hiding some talent that would lead them towards a better future. They played on the beach every afternoon after school. Threw fragments of slate over the rocks, tinkering with the mildewed and worn bamboo.

Julian was a foot higher than me, in his eyes was the pain of regret, coupled with the desperation of a junk. On the left wrist had a large irregular scar, the concealed with a handkerchief tied tight. It tells of a mysterious past, of ghost ships and pirates dressed in black. The fantasies commoners made him look attractive. The ban was concealed pleasure, and he had learned in a hurry. Dozens of women were alternated for years between the walls of his house in the mountains. The collected as shells on the beach. Did not liked, of course. If you love a woman you can not force her to live in sin of lust mixed. Had children, beautiful as him. They were born in litters of four or five at a time. In the country there were those who envied him, people now getting on in years they would pay crates full of gold coins just to make a change with his life. Not me. Mary and I had not wanted more. Julian was a strange man, but good. The friend I had since childhood, we grew together, weaned at the breast of one mother, my. Donna Concetta, her mother had died in childbirth.

Accele pace, slipping into the hole in the hills, scrambling over the first step on the sea. The twigs are tied at the ankles, struggles to maintain balance. Minerva was a shield to the moon, the jagged edges of the hill cast shadows on the path. Stepped silencing the voice of my conscience, unable to turn around and go back. I reached the ridge that night glided to the bottom of the sea, the dawn lit up the shrubs, the dew glistened on the leaves curled round. In Mary's heart was beating his breath.

went down the ridge to the north and headed towards the small floodplain of Between them. The river was placid, like a thin stream, flat as the sea at sunset in September. I rinsed my face, and suddenly a shiver ran down my fingers. In the pool of water that was in my hands and I saw the wrinkled old face of my father. Ingollai the memory of our past, the drops broke free from my grip and ran the wet shirt.

The stones of the house of disagreements illimuninavano gold, rose from the soft voices of women and children.

I saw him cross the yard wearing a large straw hat held out. On the left shoulder hung a bore shotgun. He walked fast towards the vineyard, the wind in his face pressed needles in March. I

lowered to lie down on the grass. Crawling like a worm in the mud was wriggling your pelvis against the rough terrain of the path. The sweat came down fast, in the temples roaring sound of a drum. Suddenly everything went black.

sank his hand into his trousers and squeezed. The trigger was moved without resistance, with every breath he got up to me. Julian swung around, I saw his red eyes injected with poison rest on Mary's bare back. He dropped his trousers over his shoes, rolled up the underwear under your knees. The buttocks tight and high, ready to strike. Maria was at the window, her hair loose. Watch the sunset over the horizon drowning, he loved this time of night. Turning to look brush his bust was offered to me. And to those of Julian. She screamed in fear and shame, he threw himself on the breast with his mouth wide open.

I had sunk a punch in the kidneys, causing wear out and roll on the ground.

He had apologized to him, the next day. He was ranting of a daydream, wine, drunk, his poor sense of direction.

No, I had not forgiven. He wanted to steal my woman, my friend Julian.

I could see him now, dressed for hunting, but I knew it was under that dress, I guess the curves of his muscles under his pants, his penis erect ready to sink his violence in the soft flesh of my Mary.

closed my eyes and pressed deeply, counting backwards numbers out of order. I expected a dull thud, the recoil on the shoulder, the smell of powder on your fingers.

No noise rose into the air that morning, nor the mornings to come.

Barbara Greggio

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Moments moving

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Italy is a country for women!

"Italy is not a country for women" . Angela Finocchiaro, spokesperson of the movement "If not now when" says with conviction. He has a sunny smile on her face that sets it apart, like the yellow sun in her hair. Behind him move women of all ages, young and mature, old and young girls. Move toward the future, united and determined. It 'an image that echoes in my head, the voice of calm Finocchiaro, her maternal gaze, the generosity of his spirit. The wall on which affects the peaceful battle cry of Italian women appear immaculate, the bit does not raise dust. Beautiful, I tell myself, just beautiful. Too much, not to hide the defect.

Italy is not really a country for women? All men are addicted to easy sex, ready to grant favors in exchange for some deep sigh?

not want to think that Italian women are just escort, soubrette looking for visibility and uninhibited social climber. It is true that the Italian woman is only one object.

It 's a bit like the equation = pretty stupid.

Italian women are our grandmothers, their mothers, those who were alone at home, with a swarm of children to grow up, waiting for their men returned from the war. They are our mothers gave us a kiss in front of the front glass door of the school, while we sank in shame. Italian women are a reflection of frustration and incompleteness in the race relentlessly toward unattainable perfection.

Often I hear someone say "So young and already have a son. Brava!" . Brava? And why? I have thirty years, are a working woman, I have a family and a home. How many. Nothing special.

know the value of sacrifice, the weight of expectation, the commitment of dedication. When I read

escort and local councilors, I think that in Italy there are too hide behind the hypocrisy of indifference. It is not true that everything is as it seems. The scandals that rise to the surface these days are only the tip of the iceberg melted and formless that, deep down, still "maintains its crystalline nature.

I can not think of a woman, it all boils down to nightly parties lewd and pornographic.

Women should unite against those who leave the message that only in Italy do you career to cock strokes and legs outstretched. Especially since the first ones to run it, this message, your women are ready to sell to the highest bidder.

The problem is the education we have - or have - received to date. Really eighteen years he only thinks about sex, drugs and money?

These days an old school friend I was reminded of the years when we were on the edge of adulthood. Twelve years ago, not centuries.

None of us is done to strip for a living. Nothing is compromised. In many, mind you, professionals are made. We did it - and will continue to do it - we believe in ourselves, in what we do best, not we will stop at the first not to come.

And this demonstrates that women, those clean, honest ones, still exist.

It seems too easy to yell at people, unhappy with some jokes against journalists, against beauty misunderstood by their availability.

are women possess the scepter of power. We alone decide how and when to leave humiliate, humble, we first.

So women, we raise the cry of protest. Let us not miss the opportunity to demonstrate our value, let's stay together, composed, angry, combative, smiling, sensual. Because we are all these things together, and if one party dominates the other, if the corpo offusca la mente, siamo noi a perdere, non gli uomini. Loro si limitano ad approffittare della smania di potere e agio che sembra aver azzerato la dignità femminile. Sembra .

L'Italia è un paese per donne. Intelligenti, caparbie e moralmente oneste. E' il momento di dimostrarlo. Basta lamentarsi!

Tina Merlin, Maria Montessori, Rita Levi Montalcini, Federica Pellegrini, Valentina Vezzali, Anna Magnani, Sofia Loren, Dacia Maraini, Carla Fracci. Donne. Italiane.

A questo punto chi mi legge potrebbe pensare "Ecco, la solita racchia che difende le donne intelligenti perché non è bella" . Non è così. E' often because my good looks has attracted more interest, I say these things. One can resist. It should.

Barbara Greggio