AND NOW I WILL EXPLAIN WHY THE ONANIST NARCISM OF JOURNALISTS MAKES MORE VICTIMS OF THE WAR IN UKRAINE TO GENERATE MORE DESTRUCTIONS

Italy is a country of narcissistic pathogens with a complex of crafty people looking for easy luck, allergic to hard work and sacrifice, who continue to believe that what matters is finding the friend of the right friend to have the road smoothed. A country, our, where the number of those who write is greater than those who buy books and read. And let's not talk about those who don't have time to read because they are engaged in high activities “cultural” and who try to understand something with questions that reveal all the dementia that poisons them.

- Actuality -

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Author
Ariel S. Levi di Gualdo

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A few days ago the Editions The Island of Patmos they have published a new book of mine, obviously it is very well written. The text is a precise and lucid analysis of the Russian-Ukrainian conflict, with critical and ironic points of information mainstream that clouds public opinion, with rare exceptions. It is useless to linger in portraying how good I am, because in my job I am a champion. E, that said, I do not go further, talking about foregone things bores me.

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For the record I add that I am also humble, because how I recognize my virtues and abilities - which I could not put to use if I ignored them, as taught in the Holy Gospel the Parable of the Talents [cf.. Mt 25, 14-30] ―, in the same way I also recognize my limitations and shortcomings, which I am the first to highlight, then making fun of myself publicly. This is the difference between a Ferrari and a cart, between a truly humble priest and a clerical who whines with a twisted neck «no, I'm not worthy ... I'm not up to par!». But becoming a hyena when you retort: "It's true! And in addition to not being worthy or up to par, with the occasion I remind you that you have not indicated your worst unworthiness and limitations that cause a lot of damage to others too, given the delicate role in which the villains who direct the puppet theater have made you rise. Wait up, now I will list all the reasons for your not being worthy, of your not being up to par ... ". And so you will have made yourself a new enemy of those relentless ones by which I keep myself witty in mind, brilliant in the dialectic, youthful and sporty in the body, because the more attacks they give me the more they revitalize me and make me reflective, sharp and combative. However, we golden eagles are like that, even if the chickens that dig in the hen house do not give peace, without ever forgiving yourself for being what they are not and what they can never be.

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Selling books in Italy is difficult, ours is a people where fake experts and intellectuals swarm who rigorously presume above all to know, then to write. Full lockdown for Covid-19 even those who could barely write the shopping list had become essayists, but above all novelists. But if we take these people - as I have done several times - and make them talk through the technique with which idiots who do not even realize they are being subjected to an interrogation disguised as dialogue, to the question of how much they study and what were the last literary works they have read, roughly the answer will be this: «Studying… reading? But I don't have time, I'm too busy writing!». If we then go and read their piles of junk, in addition to the lack of writing skills, a total lack of knowledge of the greatest works and the main literary styles will immediately emerge. The sources from which they draw are sites and blogs found on the telematic network, where as many "scientists" abound who think they can deal with history, philosophy, theology, geopolitics, exact sciences and so on, using as a source all the bullshit published on Wikipedia by an army of anonymous failed researchers and old retired professors angry with the entire cosmic universe.

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Italy is a country of narcissistic pathogens with a complex of cunning looking for easy luck, allergic to hard work and sacrifice, who continue to believe that what matters is finding the friend of the right friend to have the road smoothed. A country, our, where the number of those who write is greater than those who buy books and read. And let's not talk about those who don't have time to read because they are engaged in high activities “cultural”, or who try to understand something with questions that reveal all the dementia that poisons them. To such a man, than on a social he asked me about political Zionism, answered: «On this issue I wrote a book In the 2006, explaining the complex historical phenomenon ". The demented reaffirms, I then turned out to be a tenured teacher in a high school: "Yup, but he could not answer me in a few words, because I don't have time to read ". The thing that I find truly unique is that only one these subjects send some protest emails to the Ecclesiastical Authority to accuse me of being an aggressive vulgar, a shame of the Catholic priesthood guilty of sending them to fuck off. Frankly, if an author who has dedicated five years of intense work and research to the treatment of a very delicate and complex issue, Fuck off someone who expects everything to be explained to him in a few words after candidly declaring that he doesn't have time to read, the sfanculata it should be judged as the minimum wage, not an attack of lese majesty such as to claim my head from the Ecclesiastical Authority, you don't think so?

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Maybe mine were other times, but I would certainly never have gone to a reception with an academic to ask him to summarize his book in two words and thus introduce me to the exam without having to read it, being busy with other matters. The old professors I had to deal with would never have let me pass the exam, except after learning their thousand-page book by heart, included footnotes.

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A book to sell and disseminate, as it advertises? Romantics think: journalistic reviews, if anything, after an appeal, of practice and rigor, to the friend of the friend. I will be frank: as for me, I can send a free pack of family-size toilet paper to journalists to help them reduce the heavy consumption costs due to their diarrhea problems, but a book of mine in homage not even to die, because mine are high quality works. Throughout Italy, the journalists to whom I give my books as a gift are only five friends to whom I repeat each time: "Don't feel obligated to do a review".

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Someone might think that this is an oddity of mine, basically I know many celebrities of Italian journalism, including directors of various national newspapers. there, let's start with the latter: why the editor of a newspaper who writes with his feet, to the point that it does not need to be checked by the proofreader but by an accurate one editing of his writings, it should favor the launch of the book by a much more gifted and cultured author, who writes very well and analyzes the facts with an impartiality unknown to him, held as he is to be accountable to masters, shareholders and various owners, unless they declare themselves truthful and independent from one television program to another, with an ass face more or less comparable to that of a whore who proclaims herself a virgin? It would be as if Fantozzi's daughter afflicted by understandable complexes and then became the mother of a creature more similar to a monkey than to a child, was asked to advertise Monica Bellucci's beauty and to write that her daughter Deva, by the enchantment of nature, she is even more beautiful than the mother herself.

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I want to reveal something unknown to many: the journalist is the first not to read and not to document himself. With the exception of a few and rare Italian gold pens now reduced to a happy niche world, our journalists are in conditions of embarrassing ignorance, mainly due to the fact that the mass of the public wants bread and circus, blood and confetti. Or maybe you haven't noticed that in the editions on-line some newspapers now highlight some sentences in bold type in the articles, so much are they aware that the webete average or digital illiterate, which make up a frighteningly high percentage of the public, he never reads an article from top to bottom? For this they highlight three or four sentences, so that webeti and digital illiterates have the illusion of having formed an opinion, to then go crazy by a social to the other, more arrogant and aggressive than ever, to give ample proof of when they did not understand a fucking emeritus. The journalist who has acquired a certain notoriety is a narcissist-onanist who does not even read the articles of his other colleagues published on the same page where his article is published. He is too busy liking himself to be able to accept the existence of much better men and above all much more capable than him.

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Certain newspaper editors that every night you see wandering around the talk show, they have no idea what their newspaper publishes, other than carefully reading the sketch from top to bottom before the finished and approved paper goes to print, imagine! Yet they are called not by chance “responsible directors”, precisely because they are responsible before the Law and the Council of the Order of Journalists for what the various authors publish in their newspaper. The sketches were read with extreme care by Indro Montanelli and Enzo Biagi, often calling the journalist who wrote the piece to ask him for explanations, or corrections and changes, to give him a suggestion or to urge him to continue working well that way. And several of these old editors have come up with good journalists, some have remained so, improving over time, others have ruined themselves by becoming vain narcissists as soon as they come into the limelight.

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I'm not interested in selling 100 O 10.000 copy but to do my job well and be counted in the circle of the best, of the loyal and consistent, in which for years I have my well-deserved space earned at a high price in 58 years of life. Mine is a work rooted in the present but projected into a future perspective, several of my books published ten or twenty years ago are proof of this, where with precise analyzes, decided and often merciless I anticipated the future. And then things went as I had described them in those works of mine years in advance. And I never took pride in exulting "I said so ... I wrote it ...", if anything, I expressed my most sincere pain and I really suffered for not being wrong, because years later I would have liked to have been able to refute myself and explain that my analysis was completely wrong. This is the point from which we could start a very serious discussion on the great Christian virtue of humility, which has nothing to do with the poison of clerical collotors.

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This is why I don't send my books as a gift to anyone, if not a few close friends, leaving people free to draw from a safe and honest source, or to continue to roll up between bread and circus, blood and confetti, thinking I have understood everything with the typical unconscious arrogance of those who continue to read the title and perhaps the subtitle, along with two or three sentences highlighted for the mass of webeti and digital illiterates, that thank God they will never be able to constitute the audience of my Readers.

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Unfortunately Giovanni Boccaccio and Pietro l'Aretino they could not know me because the centuries have separated us. Certainly, from their well-deserved Paradise they appreciate me and cheer me on, not for some balls they wrote about almost eight centuries ago, enclosing their ridiculous images in the extraordinary figure of Friar Cipolla who tried to fuck the poor Boeotians by exhibiting his relics as amazing as they are improbable. Today Frate Cipolla directs one of the main Italian newspapers, then in the evening he participates in talk show, where with unparalleled seriousness he supports the undoubted authenticity of the relic of the pen dropped to the Archangel Gabriel during the Annunciation made to the Blessed Virgin Mary, and to which all those who read only the title and subtitle trust, the most careful two sentences highlighted in bold in the article, so that they can end up fucked up much more than the peasants who populated the Italian countryside of the fourteenth century. Maybe, the man of today, had the sense of self-irony and above all the critical and speculative sense that the man of the Middle Ages had, maybe!

the Island of Patmos, 7 May 2022

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