Cosa stai leggendo? ***Club del libro di solobari.it***

[u d' kkiù]

Susan Axe-Bronk: "The Vanishing Gourds"

Libro illustrato per bambini.
Belli i disegni, ma storia senza infamia e senza lode.

[uazza]

The subtle art of not giving a fuck - Mark Manson

Dalla prima pagina:

Charles Bukowski was an alcoholic, a womanizer, a chronic gambler, a lout,
a cheapskate, a deadbeat, and on his worst days, a poet. He’s probably the
last person on earth you would ever look to for life advice or expect to see in
any sort of self-help book.
Which is why he’s the perfect place to start.
Bukowski wanted to be a writer. But for decades his work was rejected
by almost every magazine, newspaper, journal, agent, and publisher he
submitted to. His work was horrible, they said. Crude. Disgusting. Depraved.
And as the stacks of rejection slips piled up, the weight of his failures pushed
him deep into an alcohol-fueled depression that would follow him for most of
his life.
Bukowski had a day job as a letter-filer at a post office. He got paid shit
money and spent most of it on booze. He gambled away the rest at the
racetrack. At night, he would drink alone and sometimes hammer out poetry
on his beat-up old typewriter. Often, he’d wake up on the floor, having
passed out the night before.
Thirty years went by like this, most of it a meaningless blur of alcohol,
drugs, gambling, and prostitutes. Then, when Bukowski was fifty, after a
lifetime of failure and self-loathing, an editor at a small independent
publishing house took a strange interest in him. The editor couldn’t offer
Bukowski much money or much promise of sales. But he had a weird
affection for the drunk loser, so he decided to take a chance on him. It was
the first real shot Bukowski had ever gotten, and, he realized, probably the
only one he would ever get. Bukowski wrote back to the editor: “I have one
of two choices—stay in the post office and go crazy . . . or stay out here and
play at writer and starve. I have decided to starve.”

Letto. Molto illuminante. Una revisione dello stoicismo in chiave moderna Avevano fatto anche un docufilm fino apoco tempo fa su Netflix.

Non posseggo tv dal 2007, tentomeno netflix,
Pero sarei curioso di vedere il docufilm, ti ricordi il titolo cosi da poterlo cercare in rete?
Hai letto il cartaceo? Io ho scaricato il pdf da archive.org

[Rosencratz]

The subtle art of not giving a fuck - Mark Manson

Dalla prima pagina:

Charles Bukowski was an alcoholic, a womanizer, a chronic gambler, a lout,
a cheapskate, a deadbeat, and on his worst days, a poet. He’s probably the
last person on earth you would ever look to for life advice or expect to see in
any sort of self-help book.
Which is why he’s the perfect place to start.
Bukowski wanted to be a writer. But for decades his work was rejected
by almost every magazine, newspaper, journal, agent, and publisher he
submitted to. His work was horrible, they said. Crude. Disgusting. Depraved.
And as the stacks of rejection slips piled up, the weight of his failures pushed
him deep into an alcohol-fueled depression that would follow him for most of
his life.
Bukowski had a day job as a letter-filer at a post office. He got paid shit
money and spent most of it on booze. He gambled away the rest at the
racetrack. At night, he would drink alone and sometimes hammer out poetry
on his beat-up old typewriter. Often, he’d wake up on the floor, having
passed out the night before.
Thirty years went by like this, most of it a meaningless blur of alcohol,
drugs, gambling, and prostitutes. Then, when Bukowski was fifty, after a
lifetime of failure and self-loathing, an editor at a small independent
publishing house took a strange interest in him. The editor couldn’t offer
Bukowski much money or much promise of sales. But he had a weird
affection for the drunk loser, so he decided to take a chance on him. It was
the first real shot Bukowski had ever gotten, and, he realized, probably the
only one he would ever get. Bukowski wrote back to the editor: “I have one
of two choices—stay in the post office and go crazy . . . or stay out here and
play at writer and starve. I have decided to starve.”

Letto. Molto illuminante. Una revisione dello stoicismo in chiave moderna Avevano fatto anche un docufilm fino apoco tempo fa su Netflix.

Non posseggo tv dal 2007, tentomeno netflix,
Pero sarei curioso di vedere il docufilm, ti ricordi il titolo cosi da poterlo cercare in rete?
Hai letto il cartaceo? Io ho scaricato il pdf da archive.org

Credo che abbia lo stesso titolo

[uazza]

The subtle art of not giving a fuck - Mark Manson

Dalla prima pagina:

Charles Bukowski was an alcoholic, a womanizer, a chronic gambler, a lout,
a cheapskate, a deadbeat, and on his worst days, a poet. He’s probably the
last person on earth you would ever look to for life advice or expect to see in
any sort of self-help book.
Which is why he’s the perfect place to start.
Bukowski wanted to be a writer. But for decades his work was rejected
by almost every magazine, newspaper, journal, agent, and publisher he
submitted to. His work was horrible, they said. Crude. Disgusting. Depraved.
And as the stacks of rejection slips piled up, the weight of his failures pushed
him deep into an alcohol-fueled depression that would follow him for most of
his life.
Bukowski had a day job as a letter-filer at a post office. He got paid shit
money and spent most of it on booze. He gambled away the rest at the
racetrack. At night, he would drink alone and sometimes hammer out poetry
on his beat-up old typewriter. Often, he’d wake up on the floor, having
passed out the night before.
Thirty years went by like this, most of it a meaningless blur of alcohol,
drugs, gambling, and prostitutes. Then, when Bukowski was fifty, after a
lifetime of failure and self-loathing, an editor at a small independent
publishing house took a strange interest in him. The editor couldn’t offer
Bukowski much money or much promise of sales. But he had a weird
affection for the drunk loser, so he decided to take a chance on him. It was
the first real shot Bukowski had ever gotten, and, he realized, probably the
only one he would ever get. Bukowski wrote back to the editor: “I have one
of two choices—stay in the post office and go crazy . . . or stay out here and
play at writer and starve. I have decided to starve.”

Letto. Molto illuminante. Una revisione dello stoicismo in chiave moderna Avevano fatto anche un docufilm fino apoco tempo fa su Netflix.

Non posseggo tv dal 2007, tentomeno netflix,
Pero sarei curioso di vedere il docufilm, ti ricordi il titolo cosi da poterlo cercare in rete?
Hai letto il cartaceo? Io ho scaricato il pdf da archive.org

Credo che abbia lo stesso titolo

Of course

[Rosencratz]

The subtle art of not giving a fuck - Mark Manson

Dalla prima pagina:

Charles Bukowski was an alcoholic, a womanizer, a chronic gambler, a lout,
a cheapskate, a deadbeat, and on his worst days, a poet. He’s probably the
last person on earth you would ever look to for life advice or expect to see in
any sort of self-help book.
Which is why he’s the perfect place to start.
Bukowski wanted to be a writer. But for decades his work was rejected
by almost every magazine, newspaper, journal, agent, and publisher he
submitted to. His work was horrible, they said. Crude. Disgusting. Depraved.
And as the stacks of rejection slips piled up, the weight of his failures pushed
him deep into an alcohol-fueled depression that would follow him for most of
his life.
Bukowski had a day job as a letter-filer at a post office. He got paid shit
money and spent most of it on booze. He gambled away the rest at the
racetrack. At night, he would drink alone and sometimes hammer out poetry
on his beat-up old typewriter. Often, he’d wake up on the floor, having
passed out the night before.
Thirty years went by like this, most of it a meaningless blur of alcohol,
drugs, gambling, and prostitutes. Then, when Bukowski was fifty, after a
lifetime of failure and self-loathing, an editor at a small independent
publishing house took a strange interest in him. The editor couldn’t offer
Bukowski much money or much promise of sales. But he had a weird
affection for the drunk loser, so he decided to take a chance on him. It was
the first real shot Bukowski had ever gotten, and, he realized, probably the
only one he would ever get. Bukowski wrote back to the editor: “I have one
of two choices—stay in the post office and go crazy . . . or stay out here and
play at writer and starve. I have decided to starve.”

Letto. Molto illuminante. Una revisione dello stoicismo in chiave moderna Avevano fatto anche un docufilm fino apoco tempo fa su Netflix.

Non posseggo tv dal 2007, tentomeno netflix,
Pero sarei curioso di vedere il docufilm, ti ricordi il titolo cosi da poterlo cercare in rete?
Hai letto il cartaceo? Io ho scaricato il pdf da archive.org

Credo che abbia lo stesso titolo

Of course

Il cartaceo l'ho letto (su kindle ) L'ho trovato utile. Lo raccomando spesso.

[u d' kkiù]

Janet Evanovich: "Ten Big Ones"

Direi che questo genere ben si possa definire "Comedy Crime".
Libro molto divertente, con passaggi surreali (ma non troppo) e scambi di battute fulminanti.
Finalmente un'eroina che non si prende troppo sul serio e che, ben più di una volta, si dimostra decisamente non infallibile.

[uazza]

The Biology of Belief - Bruce H. Lipton, PhD.

It is now widely recognized that genes and DNA do not control our biology. Instead, they are controlled by signals from outside the cell, including energetic messages emanating from our thoughts.

[u d' kkiù]

Gennaro Serio: "Notturno di Gibilterra"

Davvero arduo giudicare questo libro, secondo me spaccato in due. Prima parte eccezionale, praticamente un giallo-noir metafisico-letterario; seconda parte (dopo che inspiegabilmente si rivela l'assassino) stucchevole, involuta, forzata... per usare un termine tecnico: loffa.
Peccato, se avesse mantenuto il mordente iniziale, l'avrei ritenuto un capolavoro.
Le pagine migliori sicuramente quelle che descrivono un surreale campionato mondiale dei detective cartacei, da Poirot a Sherlock Holmes, passando per Montalbano.

[u d' kkiù]

Nicola Lagioia: "Riportando tutto a casa"

[u d' kkiù]

Sebastiano Diciassette: "Ogni bel gioco"

Una raccolta di racconti che narra le gesta sconclusionate di un gruppo di ragazzi sullo sfondo di una Bari degli anni ‘80/’90.
Come dei perdenti James Dean della modernità, a cui si rifà allusivamente il titolo del primo racconto (Rebel Without A Cause diventa sarcasticamente Ragionieri senza una ragione, giocando con una serie di cortocircuiti semantici), i nostri anti-eroi paiono incarnare quella triste spregiudicatezza e malinconica immoralità presente in molti personaggi di Andrea Pazienza, tra immancabili sbronze, droghe e incontri/scontri con le forze dell’ordine.

[u d' kkiù]

Chiara Todesco: "Favole d'inverno sulle Dolomiti"

Semplici favolette illustrate per i piccoli amanti della neve e delle montagne.

[viafiorino]

Sebastiano Diciassette: "Ogni bel gioco"

Una raccolta di racconti che narra le gesta sconclusionate di un gruppo di ragazzi sullo sfondo di una Bari degli anni ‘80/’90.
Come dei perdenti James Dean della modernità, a cui si rifà allusivamente il titolo del primo racconto (Rebel Without A Cause diventa sarcasticamente Ragionieri senza una ragione, giocando con una serie di cortocircuiti semantici), i nostri anti-eroi paiono incarnare quella triste spregiudicatezza e malinconica immoralità presente in molti personaggi di Andrea Pazienza, tra immancabili sbronze, droghe e incontri/scontri con le forze dell’ordine.

Che tu sappia, esiste anche il formato " cartaceo "?

[u d' kkiù]

Sebastiano Diciassette: "Ogni bel gioco"

Una raccolta di racconti che narra le gesta sconclusionate di un gruppo di ragazzi sullo sfondo di una Bari degli anni ‘80/’90.
Come dei perdenti James Dean della modernità, a cui si rifà allusivamente il titolo del primo racconto (Rebel Without A Cause diventa sarcasticamente Ragionieri senza una ragione, giocando con una serie di cortocircuiti semantici), i nostri anti-eroi paiono incarnare quella triste spregiudicatezza e malinconica immoralità presente in molti personaggi di Andrea Pazienza, tra immancabili sbronze, droghe e incontri/scontri con le forze dell’ordine.

Che tu sappia, esiste anche il formato " cartaceo "?

Sì, puoi ordinarlo direttamente dal sito di Calibano Editore, prezzo 9.50 euro.
Qui il link:
https://www.calibanoeditore.com/libri/O ... iciassette

[viafiorino]

Grazie mille

[CIANURO]

Nicola Lagioia: "Riportando tutto a casa"

Letto anch'io. La prima parte bellissimma. La seconda molto meno.
Da segnalare l'inizio quando parla del fatto che a Bari volevano buttare la bomba atomica all'Inghilterra dopo la tragedia dell'Heysel. Segno di quanto se ne erano andati di testa gli italiani, dopo il boom a debito degli anni '80.
Si perde quando arriva a Japigia e deve descrivere la città da pere... rispetto a quella da bere tanto propagandata dalla corte di Craxi, De Michelis e Martelli... "Compagni socialisti fatevi avanti che questo è l'anno del garofano rosso e dei solo nascenti (Simboli del PSI e del PSDI). Fatevi avanti col mito del progresso e con la vostra schifosa ambiguità. Ringraziate la dilagante stupidità" Giorgio Gaber cantava questo in io se fossi Dio.
Dicevo si perde a Japigia e nelle sue pere anni '80, a scusarlo si può giustamente sostenere che non è stato l'unico a perdersi.