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Moderat

Between the grammar and etiquette. For years, the walls of Turin, the posters appear periodically with a written peremptory: MODERATE. The capital is not enough to make the idea of \u200b\u200bhow thick and threatening letters that are written, that seen from afar intimidating as an army of bouncers deployed. When we walked past the first few times, it seemed to me one of those millennial messages such as "Zeus sees you" (See Charles pestle), and I happened to arrest me in front of it to reflect on when and how I had behaved so reckless as to justify a call from someone so energetic. It took me a long time to realize that that was not written an exhortation addressed to me and other sinners, but the manifesto of a political party, the "moderates" in fact, multicolored team that brings together nearly all the parties of fugitives arc Parliamentary by Rifondazione Forza Italy. Other
can not tell you about their political, except in the Piedmont are with the Centre and Apulia with the center.
The only certainty about them is that I do not know the Italian grammar, or that are rude. To avoid any ambiguity would have been enough emphasis, or at least that would use a smaller font. Not having done neither the one nor the other, you'd think that they wrote it on purpose. And what are the real ones the first to have to moderate.

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pierced

In the sense of distant, remote, deceased. In the past perfect grammar is more of a past: a past that is before another past, is in fact a sort of grandfather of the present. In the indication there are two types of pierced - The past perfect (I had begun) and the remote past perfect (I had finished). If you see any grammar, yet you will find the mirrors with the conjugation complete, in fact, that we study in school regularly. Unfortunately, as happens to many grandparents, even the dead do not have an iron health, especially the remote. Indeed, it seems that that is slowly consuming, forgotten in that kind of language that is home to many who are not accustomed to frequent and literature.
For the sake of completeness, I should mention that there is a well in the past perfect subjunctive, which is used for example in the hypothetical sentence ("If I could I'd come '). Even there, however, the speakers tend to prefer the past tense ("I was if I could ') that strictly speaking just a little grammar would be' imperfect, and yet, perhaps because indeterminacy to its flexible, enjoys a growing popularity. The
pierced, however, is not only a verb tense. It is also a state of mind, a kind of emotional premature senility, inability endemic decline of things in the future. Dead and those who say "in my day," as if "those days" were the immovable center of gravity of the story and not just a frame in the continuum of human affairs. Who is pierced in addressing the crisis brings up hours Keynes, now Reagan Roosevelt hours, forgetting that none of them would have even imagined as a perversion of the subprime financial. Dead and those who make comparisons between the Wave and sixty-eight, denying young people protesting against a reform school and university sacrosanct independent identity. Passed away (sometimes, indeed, even "extra-past") and Facebook, hatch providing access to technology with old friends, old photos and old emotions that at some point in our lives we led in the attic and now for some reason we decided to re-emerge on the computer screen.
do not know if you have noticed, but while the crisis is pressing and pushing through the future, one of the most popular consumer products of modernity has become the past, even the dead. The offer companies, TV and of course the Internet (Facebook, Youtube and sites for nostalgia), and is not the same operation ol'ancor more nostalgia than usual - and sought - fashionable revival. This time it sells the past because there is demand. The increasing demand for those (especially 30/40 year olds) who are moved in front of the new 500 seems too much for the old, creating community to understand what happened to "Supergulp" who upload and watch the episodes on youtube or of Portobello 'Another Sunday, losing his mind in front of a replica jersey Inter Herrera, who seek the meaning of her own life in the catalog of wrinkles and receding hairline on Facebook.
the rest is normal if you look at the past in front of you no longer able to glimpse the future. Strange that only in this overdose of the past, no longer use the time passed away.

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worth more than the practical - premiss

be true, as you hear it said that Italian is barbaric, that pollute the uneducated, that English bribed him, which newspapers and mortify him that television humiliates him, but not is the world's most ferocious and warlike army than that every day - from teaching school, located on the sections of newspapers and magazines, and lately from the blog - guarding the border that separates the language "good" the language "bad" . A legion of teachers, and veteropuristi neocruscanti committed in various capacities in many daily battles against the insidious enemies that could endanger the integrity of the language of Dante: this versatile, he and she used as subjects, "dislocations," he anacolouth, the disappearance of the subjunctive, punctuation approximate , excess anglicisms, repetitions, and much more. To inspire and support these devoted sentinels of a language "good", the blind and absolute faith in the virtues of saving Grammar, almost metaphysical entity that explains everything, all charts are all available.
In fact, the grammar - the miniscule - explains a lot but not everything, so classification is not always satisfactory, and as to have, is not that people always give so straight. Linguists in some way if they are made a right and working hard to make it less imperfect their theories and their descriptions, they are ordinary people not to give in and rely on the intervention of someone or something that puts the clamps on those so determined to insult the language. This book, which seeks to redefine the concept of error, to update the nomenclature and teaching grammar and more obsolete, and especially to rehabilitate, through examples, some alleged deviations from the norm, it is primarily directed to them. In the hope that they learn to take less seriously the grammar, and especially themselves.

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Why this blog?

Someone - I forget who and under what circumstances - told me once that the grammar is a bit 'as a leash of language: it is not escape, to regulate, to curb the irreducibly anarchic temperament. Beautiful image, I thought, imagining a woman in the act of forceful and authoritarian resist pulling a dog over-excited when it tries to drag it - she and her heels - in the mud.
Now, though personally I do not like to dirty my hands, I know the call of the mud, for dogs and language, is irresistible. We can educate them, bind them, maybe even punish them, but the day we leave them alone (The language and the dogs) is very likely going to roll in mud happy and carefree. Not only is part of their nature, but demonstrates their viability. A dog that does not stink is not a real dog. A language that does not get dirty is not a real language.

What is it then the leash? Throw it away? Do not exaggerate. Let's say that you should use it only when needed, when it brings the language for a walk in the most exclusive or between the pages of a book written. For the rest, just make sure that does not bark too much, and especially not bite.

This long preamble to introduce the blog, which is a bit 'the extension of the book where you see the cover on the side. A book which tells of a grammar and without heels, without a leash. A book that explains that those who barks really are the purists of Sunday, the "neo-bran lash out because they would like to see that the language always candid and disinfected. A book in which dozens of topics are addressed but are left out hundreds. This blog serves to fill this gap. And to trigger debate.

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L 'human existence is all the less comprehensible the more it grows every day the evidence of his utter inconclusiveness

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keep thinking that mankind is embarrassing. It 's more powerful than me, but I just can not help it. This does not make me an unfit asocial hopeless [at least not completely]: I can smile at people, I am kind, I speak with people, even go to the gym and I do not think there is a place most promiscuous talking about social relations and human contacts. Nevertheless, in secret, in my underwear, I fight against humanity: I can not even unconsciously of sided with him. And I know who is thinking suicide, self harm, even not very intelligent: I am part of mankind, by God. I also have a birth certificate: I can try. But I must essermene pulled out a some point in my life. And maybe go back to be part of it is not possible, perhaps - as some might say - who has seen the truth [and I've seen distinctly] can not be saved. Salvation is to feel part of everything. And I hate to feel part of everything. Although, in most cases, it would be much more comfortable: the sense of belonging inevitably makes life easier. Even if you are part of a minority of the people or the 'controtuttoetutti', however it is aware of belonging to a group, a group of people who have common characteristics or at least common goals. I'm not part of anything, in spite of myself I belong to the human race and live a strange one - existential chronic disease - a sense of inadequacy. Or estrangement, I do not know. And do not even know why I'm saying this now: it might be a little 'pathetic and - I swear - is absolutely not my intent. I'm fine with myself and with my superiority complex . But I happen to feel uncomfortable. Here in the world, among people who do not understand a shit [why is this: people just do not understand a shit], I feel uncomfortable. More for the world and for people that for me, I must say. But sometimes for me, for the person that I find myself having to manage: it is not easy to deal with me.

However, twenty I graduate in April. 'S official, definitive and very, very close. I hope that everything goes well, it's a beautiful day, that the Board is human, that the shoes do not hurt me, that I happen to stumble in, that my ass does not look like a bulky foreign body, that My hair is not at the mercy of my hormones, that my diction is not bad as usual, that the prof. both friendly and accommodating, that my be incredibly nice, he's perfect [and I know that it will be, because he - in his own way - it is] that there is too many people, that my legs did not tremble, that all the world will stop being the useless jumble of shit and to obey the laws of physics which is entirely to my every wish and magically make that day a perfect day.

And then he took me to Barcelona. And I - just - I'm happy. Because that saying before, that the sense of strangeness, that is always but with one exception. And that exception, as they have not fully conscious, is making me a better person. A smiling with your eyes, for example. A sleeping peacefully [and does not wake up even with an earthquake, unless the exception is not the intimate getting out of bed]. And that does not have to wait for the next wave of pain to feel real.

I hope that God does not exist. But, if any, really wrong job.


This damn nostalgia.