Scattered around Italy as seeds in the wind, away from the burning triangular island, we heat a voluntary exile with the fire of our interests: literature, art, philosophy, cinema and every other incitement the trends propose. With our eyes still wide open, we capture everything that tickles our curiosity. We like to write, that’s all. We like to “kill” things right. We grind reality in the mysterious containers of words so as they would give back the world in a polite form by growing anew in this backyard that is Pupi di Zuccaro. An aesthetic whim, if you like, but not a vent or a free zone for intellectual onanism. It is our take against the relentless fading of reality, meaning and project.

We do not boast claims of completeness or impossible objectivity. We only have one eye towards everything that seems new and beautiful: disinterested reasoning, intellectual honesty, fruitful ingenuities. We express preference for ideas that shake mountains: sacred fires, impossible missions.
We do not like resignation, common decency, the amen on the damned generation.
We have our say about everything so that the surroundings would not eat us without asking permission.


(traduzione di Cecilia Airaghi)



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