**The Seduction of Despair**

I often return from the library with three or four books. Then, in the evening, I give myself the pleasure of choosing. I flip through one first, then the other. But with "A Woman Without Luck," it wasn't possible. The first few pages captivated me, called me in, hypnotized me. Establishing anti-literary rules:

- Not to reread what he has written.

- To account for the interruptions in the diary.

- To count the lines and words on each page.

- To follow the free associations of ideas.

- To finish the diary when it reaches the last line of the notebook, or rather the penultimate because "I have decided not to use the last line. I want to leave it for the life of another person. I hope they make a better use of it than I would have. But I have tried."

Brautigan creates a diary-calendar-map-notebook that is the very plot of his life, without anything romantic. His inability to live seeps through every line, wrapped in a tender humor. It is his life, absolutely miserable, and it is his writing, absolutely sincere, without artifice. As long as he writes, he lives. He is attached to his writing around the nothingness of his life. (My life is practically devoid of dynamics, and I continue to spend too much time doing the simplest things, and my heart is like a colony on the moon populated by a unique species of stalactites apparently without transitions.)

The pages are inhabited by a woman who has hanged herself, a friend who is dying of cancer, phone calls from a contagiously desperate friend, hours of sought-after solitude, senseless movements between Montana, Japan, Canada, immobile movements. And from the reader, continuously questioned by the author because he is the only witness to the unfolding of the diary. (At this point, you know more than I do. You have read the book. I haven't. Some things I clearly remember, but at this moment I am at a great disadvantage. You have me literally in your fist now that I am about to finish.)

I behave in this way: when I face an author I don't know, I read the book without looking at comments and reviews. Usually, it is the title that catches my attention, often bought as a daily deal. In fact, in the daily offer, I identify a strategy: "what I propose to you is a taste, if you like it, you can also read the more famous works, those that have made a name for themselves."

I knew nothing about Brautigan. After reading this book, I went to read his biography and everything fell into place in the puzzle of information, even emotional, that I had made for myself right after the end.

The first few pages serve to approach his style, apparently inconclusive in the content and in the geography of the travel diary that the author calls "map-calendar" and that he crosses with direct segments across the United States, passing nonchalantly from Alaska to Hawaii and stopping in Berkeley where, indeed, the unfortunate woman lived.

In the narrative, which is by no means linear, there is a lot of self-irony that however masks a deep sadness; the random writing stops on the details that enter like flashes into the main story and take over the scene. A brilliant mind, fascinating in form and content. At times, and especially when he talks about the women who undress, capable of a delicate and moving poetry.

According to wikipedia, this is his last work and no one can take away from me the conviction that the unfortunate woman is an autobiographical transposition; it's too easy.

There aren't enough stars.

It felt extremely honest and astonishingly real.

It was as if I had stepped into his shoes and lived through his melancholy life, traversing all his arduous journeys within the pages of his 160-page notebook.

Every word, every sentence seemed to paint a vivid picture in my mind, allowing me to experience his emotions and thoughts firsthand.

It was truly a remarkable and unforgettable experience.

I found myself completely immersed in his world, sharing his joys and sorrows, and learning from his experiences.

This notebook was not just a collection of words, but a window into a soul, a testament to the power of writing and the ability to connect with others on a deep and meaningful level.

I will always cherish this experience and look forward to more opportunities to explore the lives and stories of others through the written word.

**LE PAROLE SONO FIORI DI NIENTE**

This book seems to be a unique and captivating piece. As a comment, I want to leave a sort of trailer. It could be like this: First, an image of a woman's shoe abandoned at an intersection. Then, in rapid sequence, an open suitcase with six pairs of pants and two shirts, a photo of Richard Brautigan with a chicken in Hawaii, a close-up of a tomato soup, a window with a forest view, a house almost everywhere filled with shady crepe-like darkness, canyons of nostalgia and memories of rainy afternoons, the sounds of budding love and a cuckoo clock, a limping leg, an approaching storm. And to conclude, as the final image, an abstract snowfall, like the fluff of poplar trees. And the fluff slowly fluttering over a note, with the words "le parole sono fiori di niente. Ti voglio bene." written on it.

Ah, another thing. This acrobatic diary of sorts, full of irony and melancholy, digressions, lightness, eccentricity, and kindness, opens with a (beautiful) letter that is a key to reading the following pages. Voilà :) (It's not a true spoiler, you can read it. But I'll do a test.)

N...
Pine Creek, Montana
13 luglio 1982
Cara N,
After receiving the phone call from your friend, I was of course very shaken, better to say disrupted. I sat beside the phone for a while, staring at it. Then I called my neighbor M and asked her if she wanted watermelon. I had bought a watermelon a few days ago in anticipation of a visit, but in the end we hadn't eaten it and so here I was, a bachelor, with too much watermelon at home. My neighbor said she wanted watermelon. Why didn't I bring it to her in half an hour and since I was there, didn't I stop for dinner with her and T who was there at her house passing through? I said, probably because of the phone call from your friend: "I'll bring it right away." I think I just wanted to see someone at that precise moment. "Okay," said my neighbor. "I'm coming right away," I said. I went to the icebox, took the watermelon, and set off towards my neighbor's house, which was not far from mine. I knocked on the kitchen door. It took her a minute or so to answer me. She came down from the bedroom. "Here's the watermelon," I said, placing it on the kitchen counter. "Yes," she said, her voice clearly very distant and her physical presence hesitant. There was something I wanted to show her about the watermelon, something that required her to take a knife and stick it in. It's not important what I wanted to show her about the watermelon because once done, she continued to be hesitant, as if she was somewhere else and not there in the kitchen with me. I wanted to talk a little about the phone call I had received from your friend, but suddenly her hesitation and her growing discomfort made me feel hesitant and uncomfortable too. Finally, after about a couple of minutes had passed, she said to me, looking at the floor, "I left T upstairs twisting all over the bed." T was a man. By presenting myself with the watermelon, I had interrupted them while they were making love. My first thoughts were: why had she answered the phone if she was making love and then why on earth hadn't she invented some excuse not to let me come to her at that moment? I mean, she could have told me anything and I would have come later, instead she had said yes to my proposal to come right away. Anyway, I apologized and went back home. Then I thought about the humor of the situation and I wanted to call you and tell you what had just happened to me because you have the perfect sense of humor to understand it. It's just the kind of things that you like and to which you would have reacted with your musically shrill laugh, saying things like "But no, come on!" without stopping laughing. I just sat there staring at the phone and I really wanted to call you, but I couldn't because the phone call I had received from your friend a little while ago had informed me that you had died on Thursday. I had gone to my neighbor's to talk about it a little, only that I had interrupted her while she was making love. The watermelon was just a strange excuse to talk about my pain and try to make sense of the fact that I will never be able to call you on the phone again and tell you things like the ones I just told you, which in fact only your sense of humor was able to appreciate.
With affection,
R

Bratiigan says at the end of the book that he has only read the book once, and that is because due to distraction and the sky being overcast, he has forgotten it. What does he want to say?

I believe his words.

For me, the book was a collection of fragmented sentences.
Perhaps the fans of Bratiigan understand the meaning of this book better than I do.

This book was not to my liking because for years I have not been looking for the cause and effect or the ontological philosophy of every event.
For example, the existence of a single shoe in the middle of a crossroads in Honolulu is exactly what I see, not what could be behind this scene.

If, like me, your mind does not turn to stories, whether logical or illogical, for every occurrence,
do not read this book.

I have truly missed the excitement that accompanied reading Richard Brautigan for the very first time. This particular book is his last one, and I am eager to discover if there are any parallels between its contents and his life.

After learning that he had taken his own life, I penned one of my earliest poems (I have been widely published since then), and interestingly, there are echoes of suicide within the pages of this book.

In many respects, he is a disappointing writer. He often drifts and ruminates, which can make the reading experience a bit uneven. However, what truly sets him apart is his wonderfully quirky sense of play in his writing. For me, reading his works is always a joy, almost like comfort food.

Unfortunately, as readers, we are all too aware that he is no longer with us due to his tragic decision to end his life.

My advice is to read Brautigan, but start with his other works first and then move on to this one. I firmly believe that you won't be disappointed.

E la donna senza fortuna del titolo? E' solo un pretesto, ma non è forse fatta la vita stessa di pretesti?

Probabilmente le cose più vicine alla perfezione sono quegli enormi buchi completamente vuoti che gli astronomi hanno scoperto di recente nello spazio. Se davvero dentro non c’è niente, com’è possibile che qualcosa vada storto?


As I continue on this journey, it becomes increasingly clear that life cannot be controlled and perhaps not even conceived as a whole. Plans and omens are absolutely out of the question. This book only serves to accentuate the inertia of my days. Maybe the goal I set for myself with this book was marked from the beginning. I should have started with the word "disappointment." But I don't give up.

I find myself here in Montana, describing all these atmospheric phenomena, all these changes that succeed each other or loom without materializing. Who knows if I'm also describing myself. I think I said something at the beginning of this book about it being a kind of short map-calendar of my journey through life. After all, I'm always the last to know what's happening in my life, even though I have the impression that it's the same for everyone and that believing to understand oneself is only an illusion. Who knows if I'm starting to resemble the Prophet of Gibran.

During this half-hour absence, I talked on the phone with a former student of mine from last trimester. She has talent and wants to know what she should do because she really likes to write. She wants to learn. We talked about a story of hers that didn't go well and in particular about what went wrong. I told her that she was writing too far from her personal experience and that at that stage, since she had been writing for just over a year, she had to stay closer to the things she knew until she had the technical tools to build a bridge, a longer bridge, capable of taking her away from her life. In other words, I told her to write about the things she knew. She would have all the time to write about the things she didn't know. So I start to conclude this book, which essentially talks about the things I know, about the evidence, often painful, of the facts. If you can believe me, and it's known that writers are notoriously liars, I would say that the only rereading I did of this book was to discover how far along I was each time I stopped and got lost in the many pauses there were, sometimes short, sometimes longer and more painful. At this point, you know more than me about what happened. You read the book. I didn't. Some things I clearly remember, but at this moment I'm at a great disadvantage. You literally have me in the palm of your hand now that I'm about to finish.

Why did I waste time writing about storms that never arrived when I could have dug more comprehensively and compassionately into the story of the woman who hanged herself? What will become of all the things that aren't there and how little I managed to do with the things that are?

It is very difficult to describe the past and the present simultaneously.

Because a person cannot trust the people and be certain that they will do what is expected of them.

A person realizes that he has been deceived until he comes to himself, and the people do something contrary to his expectations, exactly the opposite of what the reality dictates.

July 28, 2014.

Musings on death in novel form offer a unique and profound exploration of this universal and often mysterious topic. In the realm of literature, novels have the power to delve deep into the human psyche and emotions surrounding death. They can present different perspectives, from the fear and uncertainty that often accompany it to the acceptance and even transcendence that some may achieve.

Authors use various literary devices and techniques to bring the theme of death to life within the pages of their novels. They may create complex characters who are forced to confront their own mortality or the loss of loved ones. Through their experiences, readers can gain a deeper understanding of the many facets of death and how it can impact our lives.

Novels about death can also serve as a form of catharsis for both the author and the reader. By exploring and expressing their thoughts and feelings about this inevitable part of life, they can find a sense of release and perhaps even a newfound appreciation for the present moment. In this way, musings on death in novel form can offer valuable insights and a source of comfort in an often difficult and unpredictable world.

This score was completely based on taste and according to the situation and my feelings at that time.

It didn't belong to me in a certain sense. Maybe it was just a momentary evaluation, but it still had an impact on my mood.

I couldn't help but think about what factors might have influenced this score. Was it the specific circumstances of the moment, or my own subjective perception?

Although it was just a score, it made me realize that our evaluations and judgments are often influenced by various factors, and we should try to be more objective and rational when making them.

Flying with a hangover is an absolute nightmare.

The central nervous system is in direct conflict with the speed and noise of the airplane. It feels as if there is a surgeon operating on you while you're still conscious, with a scalpel in one hand and a textbook in the other. Meanwhile, he is repeating over and over again, "I should have studied harder." Just then, his mother barges into the operating room wearing her gardening clothes. She comes over to you and looks at the hole in your stomach and yells at the doctor, "Why did I waste my money sending you to medical school!" Then, gesturing in your direction, she exclaims, "Look at that hole! What are you going to do now? I want to see how you get out of this one!"

This vivid and somewhat comical description really captures the essence of the discomfort and chaos that comes with flying while hungover. It's a situation that no one would wish upon themselves, yet many have unfortunately experienced. The combination of a pounding headache, queasy stomach, and the disorienting environment of an airplane can make for a truly miserable journey.

Next time you think about having one too many the night before a flight, perhaps this image will serve as a reminder to exercise a bit more restraint. Because flying with a hangover is anything but pleasant.

Richard Brautigan’s last novel is truly astounding.

If you haven't delved into Brautigan's works before, this might not be the ideal starting point. It showcases Brautigan at his most reflective, chaotic, and disorganized state, yet it's perfect in its own way. I devoured it in just a couple of hours (since it's only 110 pages) as I simply couldn't put it down.

Written in 1982, Brautigan tragically committed suicide in 1984, making this the last book he penned. That fact alone is deeply poignant for me. Suicide is a recurring theme in the novel, not his own but that of the unfortunate woman in the title. We don't learn much about her, but she serves as a cause for Brautigan's reflection throughout the book. Death was clearly on his mind, especially as we also hear a great deal about a close friend with terminal cancer.

Despite all that, oddly enough, the book is largely hilarious. Brautigan's dark wit is in full swing.

The book is autobiographical and takes the form of a travel log, or what Brautigan refers to as a 'calendar map'. The only real purpose of using this form is to string along his stream of consciousness, which is essentially what this is. There are indeed some questionable sections that raised my eyebrows, but by this point, we know that he has long ceased to be concerned about what others might think.

Published posthumously first in French in 1994 (as the internet informs me), it didn't appear in English until 2000. Brautigan's only daughter discovered the manuscript after his suicide. However, finding it too painful to face at the time (as we hear of a recent rift between them in the book), it was only years later that she could clearly see the significance and (we must assume) brilliance of the work enough to allow it to be published.

If you're a fan of Brautigan and haven't read this yet, then personally, I think you've saved one of the best for last.