The Idiot Of all the human types (which are approximately 921,456,212, according to estimates of '
Australian Bureau of Statistics ) dell'idiota aware that is the rarest, it seems that aware of the idiots on the planet are an unknown number between 0.3 and 2. What idiot made a conscious? Well, if I were an idiot
not aware I would answer by saying that this story dell'idiota un'emerita idiocy is aware that there is no human typology and dell'idiota aware that even if there would be very difficult to define in a nutshell. As it happens, though, that I am an idiot aware, so that I will have no problem in explaining the Universe World what the hell is the idiot aware. Let's start with the basics. A conscious idiot is an idiot: idiocy think, says stupid things, he writes nonsense. It would be indistinguishable from any idiot is not aware If it were not for one small detail: he is aware. Aware of many things, including being an idiot. The awareness, however, does not make it any less idiotic. The Idiot aware
knows to say, do, think stupid things, but can not stop
. It is stronger than him. As well as misfortune of Donald Duck is infinitely more powerful than the luck of Gaston, the huge idiocy dell'idiota aware outperforms even its highly developed consciousness.
believe that I am jesting? Do you think the story is a nonsense
dell'idiota aware (of course it's idiotic, stupid!) ? Ok, I'll make a few practical examples. The idiot is aware one who, after 39 days that writes on his blog, he decided to update it by writing a post sull'idiota aware. The idiot is aware that one is counting the days that have passed since his last post on the calendar one by one, and does so several times in order to avoid mistakes and to write 40 or 38 instead of 39. The conscious idiot knows that no one would notice an error so small, but it's stupid, then he does the same. The trouble is that the idiot is conscious awareness, and have a lot of posts consciously clever to write on his blog, but it is especially stupid, and his stupidity is a sort of philosopher's stone
able to transmute the clever things in idiotic things .
The Idiot aware joined seventy mailing list and a dozen forums, and periodically becomes convinced that, if only, he could read all the messages of all the mailing lists and in all forums which is entered by writing well, and that this thing would bring him to
satori or something like that, begins to read a huge amount of messages, losing an average of five hours a day, except that every day that goes unread messages increase rather than decrease, bringing the idiot conscious despair. He realizes that the idea of reading all the messages of all mailing lists and forums are all deeply idiot, so he decides to give up, by accumulating messages without badarci, displaying even a wise indifference. Punta then the full reading of the 223 blog and livejournal that has included in its
RSS Aggregator but realize that this is idiotic, then accumulate well as post blogs and livejournal without badarci, displaying again a wise indifference. For a while 'his wise indifference led him to accumulate throughout the collection: hundreds of messages, email, post, text messages, chain letters, mail, stamps Tamoil, dust etc. etc. Being an idiot, however, falling back to us promptly, in a terrible vicious circle of which he is aware but which can not out as an idiot.
aware
The idiot is so stupid to get caught by the passions and interests so stupid as to leave, surprising the most idiotic of idiots do not know (although, to be fair, the idiots are not aware of stucco for anything, so their
but what the hell am I saying? remain the stucco is worthless). For example, an idiot is aware that, while not having an Apple computer
and could not buy one, you take a passion for Apple computers and spend hours reading thousands of articles, posts and emails of fanatics appleisti . The idiot goes so far as conscious ad iscriversi all'
AMUG (Apple Macintosh User Group) e, prima di rendersi conto della assoluta idiozia di quello che fa, riesce addirittura a provare una perversa forma di appagamento.
L'idiota consapevole non ne può più di essere un idiota consapevole. Si sente una specie di ibrido tra l'homo sapiens sapiens e il moscerino della frutta, un'entità né carne né pesce (infatti è vegetariano, e non è mai riuscito a capire se lo è diventato perché molto consapevole o perché molto idiota), uno scherzo della natura, un quacquaracquà, un
tutto chiacchiere senza distintivo .
Ecco perché chiede il vostro aiuto. What idiocy is this? Just, damn! ENOUGH! aware The Idiot is also an accomplished translator and author of valuable picture stories.
If you want to see his latest masterpiece, click here .
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dasketch , take note). I put them after the lj cut, because they weigh a tot. 
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rompicats . The Lower Depths is a non-existent ensemble crowds of narrative fragments, a building made with pieces do not fit, a shake-free connection of perceptions. The plot, the fabric, history have no meaning, and the reader - wrong-footed and confused - can not help but suffer the tidal wave made of thoughts and liquefied upset that the project, in the short space of fourteen dense pages, within the hallucinations of the self narrative. The strength of this young author's writing lies in the way it manages to mix elements contradictory topoi classical and postmodern experiments, descriptions, and speculations existential narratives in a giant blender cerebralemotivo. Who is the protagonist of this story? The mind, I crystallized the author? No, that overwhelms the ego and stuns the poor reader with tons of other ideas and delusions that the card is not unaware of a mad mosaic behind which does not hide any figure, a piece of a patchwork made of different fabrics and irreconcilable. This is, in hindsight, the real weakness and extreme contradiction This story, yet so charming and well written: it is a true story (but - warning - not even a jumble of diaries, as it may seem after a cursory reading). There is no structure capable of supporting stories and visions. There is too in The Lower Depths nonexistent, too much even for the author, a victim of its excess of virtuosity, unable to dominate and shape the chaos of all the universes of his own mind. In short, if someone asked me if I liked the story, that I could not say no, because I slums exist is not a story. 
is an envelope full of different puzzle pieces, not a real puzzle where you can slowly and patiently build a figure, even absurd or incomprehensible, but the result of assembly of shapes made to be embedded. The cards should be able to match if you want to create a design, an idea, just a story, otherwise remain only fragments of different designs put together without any purpose, just to make the river in full flood of his own thoughts (but then it would be fair keep the words and hide the rest of the world, inevitably destined not to understand [1]). A narrator is one who takes your soul and your guts, winks and makes you jump in front of his creation [2]. The author comes close to us at different times, some lines The Slum de nonexistent are pure energy, intense and bursting [3], the problem is that some lines are not enough, a true creation is integral, not built through the juxtaposition of so many minicreazioni can cause minisussulti unrelated to each other. The story is therefore non-existent, but some micro-are sublime. 
The lucid description of the non-dialogue with his father, for example, succeeds in a few lines to project the reader into the psyche of the characters and the sequence of thoughts, behaviors and events that brought them through endless ramifications of that interview- soliloquy "in the kitchen, late at night, over a cup of milk that sucks." The meeting with the baby on a bench by the lake and with a stranger in front of a window, the reflections on the hands that smell of wine and "cattiveggiare" the streets are like pictures taken with a precision lens that are printed in the mind of reader. All this, however, is not enough. Giulia C. have the talent and the true writer, but for now is a slave of enormous potential that can not handle. She lacks the ability (or maybe just the desire) to give birth to a plot, a story with a path, as labyrinthine, to be followed. The player is lost looking for a way to help him understand (not rationally explain or understand - in this case would not make sense - but just to understand) and he can not find, because in the words of Julia C. there is no path, or at least a route is really only understandable by the same author. In summary, and finally, the humble author of this brief review it is confronted with a substantial lack of narrative structure coupled with a massive force of writing. The author is very young, however, and can only improve (this is a commonplace, in reality often gets worse over time ... Orson Welles and Maradona teach). Judgement is then temporarily suspended, but I am firmly convinced that Julia C. is a writer with the power they capital that, sooner or later be able to dominate his creative genius [4] and will give us something great. 
