Review: “Sodomies in Eleven point” – Aldo Busi (book)


When travel becomes the uncritical condition of immobility, having researched elsewhere, with other means, the movement from one’s self and from ones ruminant thoughts becomes worth it. Busi knows this very well and as an avid reader as well as writer like few others, he throws himself to follow, in the end, one itinerary: that of writing, of the only voice flowing in one direction from our vocal cords in complete silence, listening, anchored on just to one categorical imperative,that of a tale without frills and authentic up to the improbability of the opposite.

“Sodomies in elevenpoint” manages in its intent not to speak, only in one body, of travel, sex or writing but to question- rather fortunately- on how inseparable the dimensions proposed, that we find in writing are. The esthetic and existential advice, found explicitly in “Manual for aspiring young writers” translates in rules that clean the opaque glass of grammatical constructions, sometimes inaccessible, here simplified in the clear intent to give advice that reflects the life of the author himself. The reading of the book is a fun bounce back from page to page, flowing through the linguistic oddities that Aldo Busi uses, that eco in long sentences, extraordinary and capturing.
His writing captures the attention and hypnotizes the curious eye so that the whip of his tongue may wind like ivy in the conscience of those who are reading. Every experience that is told becomes an excuse to call back out a voice, never forgotten, of the “I” that redeems its dignity too neat to be true, too bulky in a world that requires something very different.
Busi designs his stages in complete freedom of expression, careless of the rules that violate his precise and roaring speech, finely cut and in contrast with the ordinary reading one would expect. The courage portrayed in exposing ones self to the point of not being traceable anymore-having got rid of all the skeletons in the wardrobe- shows even a trial for obscenity in Trento, 1989, on part of an anonymous reader who felt brutally offended by the numerous (to many, on his count) scenes of male sex, quickly resolved as a “situation that didn’t exist”.

The plot of the book, try it to believe it, is made up of a collage of reports and primers, with warnings shouted loudly and virtuosity so inviting to the eye, by not being able to afford the luxury of returning to be themselves without a point of bitter regret, if not contempt, towards one’s own person. But it is the rawness of the descriptions, their realism – once again – to successfully determine the well known failure of history, which is an important page of literature that, according to the author himself, cannot and must not allow easy consolations. As a student and lover of writing (at the risk of causing the laughter and insults of Busi), “Sodomies in eleven point”, goes well with a growth free from laissez-loopholes, which would have the civil demerit to create other radical chic zombies and delight those who capture in the reading experience an invite to reflect and think, whatever the matter may be.

The genius of the author, frightening in his powerful ability to make writing a jump without a parachute, or leaves us speechless or, at worst, with a constant buzz in the consciousness that requires, in some way yet unknown, to ask those questions left in “forgotten box”, not mature yet and maybe, deep down, destined for oblivion more than exorcism. Busi clearly, knows how to annoy and irate, how to intimidate and orientate the discussion so that every argument will inevitably confirm his thesis, although- once overcome this resistance and this need to admit once in a while he does not feel omniscient, reading becomes mitigated with the reward that is greatly wanted and appreciated- by being presented with a unique way of writing, inimitable and incomparable for every semicolon put and removed.
Reading “Sodomies in elevenpoint” is therefore a challenge first of all with one’s self, even before the linguistic side of it: it is an eternal challenge with the taste of hybris of those who, desire to find something else whilst reading, as insatiable curious people don’t deprive themselves, at the cost of suffering gnashing most nerve-wracking, of navigate in waters that are not ones of their house.


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