Piacere, Elena Ferrante/Pleased to meet you, Elena Ferrante by Miryam Pacifico

Recensione di Storia della Bambina Perduta di #ElenaFerrante scritta da se medesima.
di Miryam Pacifico
Traduzione in inglese di Matilde Colarossi

parallel texts: words reflected

Piacere, Elena Ferrante

Di Miryam Pacifico

Recensione de Storia della Bambina Perduta di Elena Ferrante scritta da se medesima.

Carissimi lettori che mi avete seguito fin qui in questo percorso lungo i miei quattro racconti, prima di ritornare nell’ombra della mia anonima vita scrivo due righe sul mio ultimo romanzo. Il mio libro non è certo un capolavoro e dopo la mia uscita di scena sono sicura che di esso non ne rimarrà traccia alcuna. Mi vergogno molto del fatto che nella ricerca spasmodica della mia identità abbiate scomodato fior fiori di autori ai quali non sono certo degna di essere accostata ma una cosa lasciatemela dire: se esso come gli altri riscuoterà un certo successo pur essendo, e ne sono perfettamente consapevole, un grosso imbroglio con troppi personaggi, troppi nomi e troppe parentele, il motivo, secondo la mia modesta opinione è che, a prescindere da chi voi lettori siate…

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Clowns/Clown by Mati Colarossi

Life is a circus 🙂

parallel texts: words reflected

Clowns

The clown twirled. The cyst-like tip of his long shoe dug into the gold star on the circus floor, his red and white costume ballooned. Like a top, it spun.

“Boys and girls, the one, the only, Dozo the clown….”

His knobby chalk-white index cut the light. The sound, accompanied by a drum-roll, shook the air.

The spot light followed his finger as it stopped at a place in the bleachers.

“…and he wants you!”

I shuddered, yelled.

“No!”

A hand shook my shoulder.

“Pete?”

I squinted in the light that filled the room overlooking the sea.

“Bad dream again? The studio called. You have to shoot the clown scene again.”

My eyes found my wife. She smelled of fresh coffee.

“What time is it?”

“Nine. Breakfast’s ready.”

I rolled my eyes under closed lids, playing with the sperm-like particles that swam in the pink light.

“Don’t go. Stay…

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Mr. Mulligan by Michael Alenyikov

My translation of Mr Mulligan, a beautiful story by Michael Alenyikov.

parallel texts: words reflected

Mr. Mulligan

by Michael Alenyikov

They hung Mr. Mulligan by his shirt collar in the clothes closet. They could do this because Mr. Mulligan was short–five feet two inches tall–and because he was meek. Even the girls joined in. It was like a lynching. They hung him at the end of the school day, which meant it would be a long time before anyone could find him. Our classroom was on the top floor in the rear, and the school janitors began the after school clean up on the first floor, in the front.

I don’t know if they knew this precisely, those twenty or so boys and girls. And it wasn’t as though there was even a ring leader. I stood back and watched. I didn’t call for help, so it wasn’t as if I were innocent. Mr. Mulligan whimpered as they hung him–some of the boys were already…

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