by  Gianfranco Menghini

The incomplete life

Novel

A clear example is this THE INCOMPLETE LIFE, to tell the whole set of this story that presents itself as a mirror of the writer’s personality. Capturing the pangs of the reality of the world of men, with a pure language, particularly expressive in telling the protagonist’s story, no longer an aged writer, married but ready for the divorce, in love with a much younger woman. A story which moves into a bipolarity of sentiments closed in the occasional lights and in the inevitable shadows of existence, and that for one of those causes, which called “divine mysteries,” it then leads into the physical ills. And in the limbo of silent desperation, when hopes flew from the Heaven to disperse in a strange universe… For the protagonist to lose his “virility” just as he feels the physical need to possess a woman, it’s a trauma, but not a drama. The author spends in a varied blend of situations, pounds with certainty and skill in the circle of words, important pieces of the literary field.Perfectly the compositional aspect in the novel, where in the almost tangible and real form, the author brings the reader to the knowledge of the state of mind of Tullio Marsili so severely affected and makes him discover the physical and psychic condition of a man who, although feeling maimed in his male sacredness, remains bound, with the heart and the soul, and why not, even with the desire of the senses, to the woman he loves. The author has managed to grasp and focus the critical moment of a man’s life, described all the details, thus succeeding in creating a true bond between him and his reader. Because, with its indefinable impulses, with the passionate nature of telling, establishes close relationships with those who will read his book.

Read an excerpt from the book

ONE

To be more aware of how beautiful an island is, we must wait for the fall. Not such that common saying often used by the writers to describe the changing with the season through the golden colors of the dying leaves or the more diluted ones of the sleepy nature which caress the eye accustomed to seeing them in the splendor like the summer sun, but simply because, handling of a holiday resort, the tourists left it to return to their dreary brumes. The end of confusion in the villages, of the gathering in the places of interest, of the crowding on the beaches and, above all, of the chaotic traffic on roads conceived for the only the stable people, give back the wish to go for a walk and, by doing so, to seize the though minimal shading of the landscape forcedly disregarded during the summer.
Tullio made himself away down the road leading to Enfola. Before coming back to Milan, from there in two weeks forward, set himself to do a walk of some kilometers on foot, about hours stepping every day, to compensate to the sedentary life imposed on him by his writer’s trade. A job that one, which he chose since leaving his employment as a business manager for a large international company that always saw him traveling to the other end to the world. Too many dangers on those crowded planes on which it was easy for a deranged person would combine a trouble. With the experience, he had done himself in over thousand flight hours, when embarking on the plane, he saw certain faces, lived the average of ten hours of travel if not in anguish, at least with the fear that suddenly would happen something serious, so that he stayed ever on alert, ready to spring if by chance he noticed of something uneven. Luckily, nothing had happened to him, though for some big fallen planes, there would never be a clear explanation of what had caused the accident, like the famous Egypt air flight disappeared down the Atlantic with its nearly three hundred occupants. For that, one of the TWA dropped off Long Island, the technicians had claimed it had handled by a defect due to the old age of the kerosene tank in the belly of the plane, but he had never been convinced, especially since some terrorists had to do to plunge the Pan American jumbo on Lockerbie, in Scotland, which, in addition to the never-worn-out regret for the loss of human lives, had also caused the airline’s failure. About the same, thing happened to Itavia, unjustly accused to do flying airplanes without the necessary technical controls, when that DC9, with all its precious kind load, had been shot down by a military aircraft. Of what nationality? Even the posterity will not know. In all cases, almost a thousand dead who, though distributed over time, represented a hecatomb.
At fifty-five years old, in good shape to prove him at least ten less, he had preferred to retire with an old-age pension and, with the voluntary contributions to a French insurance, that he had never interrupted for almost a quarter of a century, since a year, it poured in his bank account in Nice a consistent monthly bill. Although it would be legitimate, he did not want would know that he enjoyed of two pensions. So that, no economic worry, except the unforeseen issues, we must face in life.
By four, years dedicated himself in writing novels based on solid cultural preparation, and the many experiences lived in many parts around the world, including Italy. He had already completed four and, naively, had sent each of them to a different publisher, the most educated of whom, obviously without even reading it, had sent him back. By the others, not notwithstanding a nod so that, worried that they would not receive it, had scrupulously phoned by receiving answers by arrogant secretaries-stern-custodian who, as if would be a script equal for all, had repeated him: ‘Your novel does not in our editorial line, and we cannot send backward to you. Let you figure out, with all the manuscripts coming to us every day … if you want, we invite you to withdraw it, in the contrary, after three months, we send him to the dump. He had always wondered whether the editorial secretaries of the publishing houses would have human feelings.
By the nature patient, but endowed with a tough willpower, not having the impatience to draw a profit, he continued to write. Too many things to tell and longtime available.
The north coast of Elba was an enchantment on that sunny day. The light mistral wind, moreover, to lower the temperature, had cleansed the air of that buoyant dust accumulated during the summer season, discharged by tens of thousands of cars, which crossed the island everywhere like the swarms hunting the insects.
Tullio walked by quick step, all absorbed in his thoughts, but as soon as broke up the wall of thick hedges which the owners of the villas had done grow to repair themselves against some indiscreet eyes, it opened the magnificent panorama that from the Gulf to Capo Bianco goes to the tip of the Enfola, at which extremity stood sharp, in the unmistakable horizon of a dark-blue sea in contrast to the celestial sky, the arid island of Capraia, and, on its right, the rugged whitish peaks of the Apuane Alps and away, turning the sight towards east, the landscape that gradually became flatter until the round spurs of Populonia.
Taken by that enchantment, Tullio went upon his way, still looking at the seascape. He had seen, yes, with a quick glance, a person running contrary to his sense of direction, but thought that holding him the right side, that person, crossing him, would dodge him.
And instead, he could not avoid that she would fall on him.
“Heck!” He exclaimed indignantly, but then, as he realized would be a woman, “but, please, be more careful … have yourself hurt?”
That person, still panting for the ride, lifted her head and discovered a face reddened by the fatigue and wet with sweat. “Excuse me …” worried herself. “You know … I ran … that is … I did jogging … for the figure …”
“Do you want that I help you?” He asked softly. The shot he had received had given him the pleasant impression that it would be…