Calories In 1 Grilled Shrimp

Pushing the night more 'in the'


I could finally read a bit 'of novels in Italian.
I took a Creative Commons this summer. I do not know why 'but I'm very interested in the history of this period and so my choice and' fell on the books that have as background the story of the beautiful country in the last century.
The first one I read and 'Mario Calabresi and is entitled "Pushing the night more' in the '." The author and 'the journalist, the son of Luigi Calabresi, the police commissioner who was one of the first victims of terrorism in Italy in the seventies. Tells its own story and those of other relatives of victims of terrorism, to raise the voice of citizens who remain in the shadows.
talks about his father, of course, memories that he has only two shiny, and, of course, the story Pinelli, the anrchico who died 'during an interrogation, falling from a window of the police. Pinelli's death, the press and the public accused the commissioner Calabresi. His son Mario, who at the time of death of the father had little more 'than two years, continues the attempt to restore the figure of his father, washing mud from years of campaigning on the Commissioner window and stuff like that , citing evidence and testimony. But is not that this is the book, to strike from page to page is the vacuum created by the state against those affected, who has never had words of comfort or support. One was missing, that of the seventies and today.

" (...) In kindergarten I kept away from the sandpit, I watched from afar, not wanting to get closer, it was too 'dangerous': a place of carefree games where the pain and humiliation I was attacked by surprise. One of the first day I was there I entered. Dug with shovels, we were in a circle, each telling something. Then the other children began to compete to explain what they did to their dad on the beach. At one point I looked and I, after a moment of hesitation, I said, 'I am doing my castles'. An older child interrupted me: 'Do not you, Dad you do not have it'. I began to blush, to defend myself, to explain that yes, I had a father, but it was useless, 'told me my mother, your father was shot and died'. "