There is a sullen ground, if stingy, love your silence, closed in the skin of his loneliness?
name is Patagonia?
Sometimes it makes me wonder what was the trip of Chatwin. I loved as a boy spending hours in front of my globe. Trace routes of imaginary journeys. They were always lands extreme to imprison my imagination. Patagonia, along with Tierra del Fuego was always in the middle. Games of a boy who, however, arises from the need to discover the world where the world seemed to end. Even more: many fortresses on the border of another Desert of the Tartars, with each traveler lost could never go back. As Chatwin Lieutenant John Drogo arrives in a land of extreme. An exploration made of clear vision, shadows, tremors and mysteries, myths divorced torn to any historical basis, universal because every time out. Patagonia as the fortress Bastiani. The fort was an outpost on the border with the desert. Patagonia is a desert. And like drugs, Chatwin arrives in the solitutine convinced to distribute soon. It 'sure if you have your whole life ahead. Spend many years before realizing that the time has fled, and with it his original idea of \u200b\u200bPatagonia. I've often thought the beautiful story of Buzzati. It is worth rereading in these lands, to reflect and look inward. The idea of \u200b\u200bwaiting, of hope, it takes me too, I try in my travels but it is an idea too comfortable. The search for clues that can make us believe in this possibility is often an unconscious attempt to make sense of our properties, to justify it.
The search for traces left by Alberto De Agostini does not prevent me from time to time to check out the books by Bruce Chatwin, especially In Patagonia .
Chatwin I always present a picture. One of those photos that seem to tell a story full of life: he is a young, single, homosexual, with his shoes around his neck. A sweet smile but a look unreachable, lost horizons that you do not understand.
must read Anatomy of to travel with the discovery of Chatwin Chatwin. Perhaps in no other book or article was so close to revealing what was at the bottom of his being and his tireless concern of Walker.
As a migratory bird Chatwin went flying over the vast lands of Patagonia. Sometimes he stopped to watch and describe the people and places. His stories, his stories or his travel sketches are beautiful and compelling.
But I want to say I feel inside me and I have another Patagonia. And even I am ashamed of this. I can hardly talk about it, if it were a manifestation of vanity, or a crime of lese majesty.
short, I am also convinced that In Patagonia radically changed the conception of the story of journeys. After Chatwin travels in South America, Africa or Australia have been made by writers with the same horror of the home, the same restless wandering, with the same desperate desire to break the rules of the encounter with others, and different from you.
all true and I do not go anywhere near the head of a rebuke to move Chatwin, a presumption on my part would be immeasurable.
But I repeat: Patagonia glued to my mind is different from that described by Chatwin. Besides, he was a traveler before being a writer. For me perhaps the opposite is true.
I once read an interview, explaining that no claim descriptive honesty is the point of sacrificing a detail that invented the story best. This can only suggest. The traveler is not the writer, and vice versa. You have to understand when one speaks, when the other.
It is now twenty years since Chatwin's gone. He died in January 1989 and is still wondering sull'irrequietezza travelers who pushed him to Patagonia.
But in the meantime I met a great witnesses of the other southern lands.
A name? Francisco Coloane, great writer, a writer who is sometimes like a hand that grabs my heart.
E 'I feel its my Patagonia.
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