The story begins when Vincent, former writer, knew that much of life to escape. And so he could live. Bravo Vincent. It slid
events and things and we laughed a lot more of that that you could laugh and a lot more than it was light, light became.
Vincent wrote.
In the good thing was definitely a pleasure to make a quick guide, a joke, a parody, what about the bad writing was a release, a catharsis, it was like throwing it away.
But writing was difficult and at the same time pressed Vincent, more than any other: it was the preparation of their own lives.
"Besides, who is Vincent? Of the many who can say with certainty to be really Vincent? "We asked Vincent sat at the head, in the table prepared for them for all of them," All my Vincent. "
To write your life does not necessarily have to live it. Indeed, if it happens you have absolutely the time to write. To write your life you must make sure that someone alive for you. Another you. Another Vincent.
Vincent sits down in tears on the bench in the gardens dell'Acquasola (that evocative name!) While she is moving away after abruptly dismissed with a slap too explicit. Another
Vincent gets up, leaves his body to cry on the bench and reach the girl who is moving away. He grabbed her hand, the mood of her with a touch of magic (or poetic license, if you prefer) changes, and the two disappear horizon.
And this is just one of many cases. Vincent's well now as it all over the world. Vincent Vincent has sown everywhere. Everyone has their own happy life, special, unique, complex, difficult, but happy.
I contact? Sure, all from time to time, or even in a dream in that particular state of waking we call waking dreams, they go to find Vincent. But I suspect that they are in contact with each other. I have noticed during dinner. Some were exchanging glances of understanding. Dinner. Already ...
E 'of this that I should speak. The story of Vincent, the writer is marked by a dinner that evening organized to bring together all his Vincent around the world. You will understand that the move was very risky: it is part of the nature of dreams to be reluctant to physical events such as the sit at the table eating, but also bring the wine and to congratulate for the lasagna. But the gloom for a while 'time tormenting the poor Vincent, so he decided to have a meeting of "family". Filò surprisingly smoothly. We introduced ourselves in many (we needed him) around that table were at least in fifty. There were the wives, so many. There were lots of children, who would have thought? But there were also many unmarried couples. Some traveled all the time, others had never moved from Padua, some lived in the city, others in the mountains, couples were told that they had never separated and they said to see each other very much during the year, but be happy anyway. Flowing rivers of wine (Vincent ah. ..!), All (except for a vegetarian!) Is stuffing lasagna and roast and good humor prevailed. I was there. Vincent claims that he took care of us, but I think it has always been mutual.
That night he sat at the head thoughtfully, could not understand how all Vincent so different from those they could get along. "What is the point in common? Why joyously instead of arguing about different points of view? "" I "thought" gonna battle more or less everyone. " "But in the end, I wonder why? It was I who give them lived happily ever after. And I complain? It annoys me? I should have thought before. Maybe I should just let them go, forget, forget their stories, and so all of a sudden die. Dinner with murder. Including women and children. You can not. I'm not a monster. One writer has duties. But maybe ... "
You know when all the guests at a party take out their umbrellas in the umbrella case and the last touches most unlucky? Leaving the house of Vincent something similar happened, but at stake was not the umbrella, but life. I lingered, I was in the bathroom, and when all had taken the coat and umbrella, went out, I realized that there was no one at home, not even the writer Vincent. There and then the paradox I had almost vanished. Me: Films, a dream, a character writer could not possibly exist? Then I thought that if I had managed to have dinner with my author, perhaps I could even write his story. And here I am, to tell you the one who tired to dream unlived lives could take the place of one of his dreams, here I am writing about Vincent the writer.
Photography by Fernanda Veron
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