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Carla Maria Russo has 14 books on Goodreads with ratings. Carla Maria Russo's most popular book is La sposa normanna. La sposa normanna. Cover La sposa normanna. Author: Carla Maria Russo Language: Italian Pages: Published: Download eBook. | site eBook. by Carla Maria Russo La bastarda degli Sforza ( Italian Edition). 31 Mar La sposa normanna (Bestseller Vol. ) (Italian.
She stopped in the middle of a quiet street, where hardly any cars passed. Looking around furtively as though she was about to carry out another crime she laid the poster down gently in the middle of the road. Then she walked home. Ed era semplicemente tornato a riprendersi quello che era legit- timamente suo.
Una volta divenuta la legittima proprietaria, stringendolo con orgoglio, la nebbia nel cervello inalmente sollevata, la sua vita assunse una nuova chiarezza. Poi si diresse verso casa.
That underwater world was as rich and variegated as the one above. In three they went and they had no need of words, just gestures and signals that they all instinctively understood. Eve- rything down there was disembodied, slow moving, the divers were shadowy, stripped of their faces, hidden behind masks, their skin hidden behind diving suits, their mouths concealed by their breathing apparatus, oxygen cylinders turning their backs bumpy and rounded.
The odd refraction of light; soundwaves quelled by the cushioning glory of water and unimpeded space. Shoals of ish darted this way and that, undisturbed by the three divers, who watched them in fascination. Every now and then a weirdly shaped ish, a tapered apparition rolled and passed by and then twos and threes followed, perfect replicas of one another, clones, recurring moments; their gauzy, distorted forms made the divers think the sea contained more mysteries than any earthly realm.
La sposa normanna
The truths and feelings to be found down there could not be communicated to anyone who had not been down there, in that dark, luminous abyss, that abstract underwater garden. One of the drivers pointed to a distended shell, half-hidden by a faintly glowing shrub. The shrub seemed to be coated in a phospherescent substance and the tallest of the trio extracted the shell, which resembled a human ear stretched into weird plastic- ity.
It sank from end to end like an overburdened rope bridge. The shell was promptly set down in an underwater case where it took its place with a hundred others like it and yet different. Later on those shells, small, large, odd, intricate, gaudy, plain, would be glued together to create mosaics, mosaics that depicted scenes from Greek mythology.
The works went on show at the Mediterranean Art Gallery in the small town of Caphos on the Island and they usually attracted quite a lot of attention and plaudits. Quel mondo sottomarino era ricco e va- riegato quanto quello soprastante. In tre andavano e non avevano bisogno di parole, solo di gesti e segnali che tutti loro istintivamente capivano. Sprofondava da lato a lato come un ponte di corda sovraccarico. He also ran a taverna with Dora, his wife and fellow diver who was loating close by him.
She reached out an ungloved hand to touch the skin-like surface of the shell. She smiled through her mask and the couple executed a little dance of triumph. As they did so Kirsten, who was the youngest of the trio, felt a little displaced from them. They, after all, were bound by marital vows and the activity of their loins.
Kirsten had no such connection to another human soul and she was wary of people. Only in the sea, in its underwater chambers, in its caress- ing, silent embrace, did she feel truly complete, truly whole and peaceful. Up there, in the earthly world, in the terrestrial shell of noise and strife life was heavy, and people made no sense, with their changing patterns of behaviour, contradictory, selish, and sometimes downright cruel.
The divers began to rise, drifting upwards like elongated shadows of birds borne skywards. They passed great gold corru- gated leaves of macro-algae, moving slowly up and down like giant feather fans, palpitatingly alive. As the divers spiralled upwards towards the shimmering ceiling of light small ish with black and yellow vertical stripes imitated the arc of their movements, almost as though setting up some wondrous homage to their human coun- terparts.
Then the ish sped away, gone, vanishing into the secret places only they knew how to reach. The divers, one by one, glided up to their little diving boat, and climbed up over the side by means of a small metallic ladder, removing their gear and breathing apparatus and placing it all on the stern. The sun was setting and the air was full of the heady vivid sensations of summer.
Overhead the sky was beginning to fade to a pinkish red glow. The moon was already visible and Kirsten spied it with her furtive, shy eyes. How different this scene was to those of her childhood and teenage years, before she had come to embrace her new Mediterranean life.
In the past summer had only ever been at best a tepid affair, in England, where the temperature never rose above the twenties and where the sky was more often than not a screen of clouds and greyness. In England where were the beautifully tanned people, with their miraculously well pro- portioned igures and Grecian elegance and love of life? Gestiva anche una taverna con Dora, sua moglie e compagna di immersioni, che gli luttuava vicino.
Kirsten non aveva un rapporto del genere con un altro animo umano e difidava delle persone. I subacquei cominciarono a risalire, trascinandosi su come ombre allungate di uccelli diretti verso il cielo.
Mentre i subacquei salivano a spirale verso lo scintillante sofitto di luce, piccoli pesci a strisce verticali nere e gialle imitavano i loro movi- menti arcuati, quasi a preparare un qualche mirabile omaggio alle loro controparti umane. Poi i pesci ilarono via, lontano, sparendo nei luoghi segreti dove soltanto loro sapevano arrivare. She preferred this richer, more luscious backdrop, its subtle light, dying now, but all the more beautiful and poignant for it, the endless surface of the sea, ever changing, ever moving, but always a harbinger of calm and joy, the tiny vantage point afforded by their boat, and the salt air, which seemed to hold all the textures of life in its invisible embrace.
They started making their way back to shore, silent and slightly overwhelmed as they tended to be after a dive. Kirsten said goodbye to the couple and walked over to her Volkswagen Beetle, dusty and battered in the sandy driveway that led down to the beach.
As a child she had always been accumulat- ing bruises and blisters and seemed to have a knack for harming herself, bumping her head, scraping her knee caps, falling off slides and breaking her wrist, her hip, her nose. Underwater everything was lighter, friction was robbed of its power to hurt, weight was dissipated.
Maybe that was why she loved to dive … She drove back to the village, where she was staying at a villa that the parents of her friend Melissa had bequeathed to her for a few days.
The villa contained worlds of old style grace, illed with ethereal pleasures that only Kirsten she liked to think was allowed to taste. From outside the simple beauty of the indigo blue wooden front door with no lock, just a latch, tantalisingly hinted at the magical dimensions of what lay beyond its threshold.
The door remained without a lock because the locals and the village still existed in a universe of guilelessness.
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In Caphos everything slowed down, buses were late, coffee was sipped rather than swallowed, the souvlaki was cooked slowly, the hours passed slowly and it did not matter because either the sun or the sea or something ensured that purposefulness could be discarded and it was ine to do abso- lutely nothing and yet somehow it was never boring or oppressive.
Life could be lived merely by observing, meditating, being.
Sebbene non capisse le persone, quantomeno preferiva quelle vive e decise a godersi la cosa. La villa conteneva mondi di grazia vecchio stile, colmi di eterei piaceri che soltanto a Kirsten amava pensare lei era permes- so gustare.
Si poteva vivere la vita semplicemente osservando, meditando, essendo. She strove to become one with the water, to move in tireless, perfect patterns as each stroke, each length she managed became a better and better embodiment of technique and elegance. There, in that midnight shrine, outside, as she loated on her back, looking up, she peered into the basin of the night sky and the constellations and clusters of stars were freckles on the face of the universe.
Here was the perfection she had dreamed of: She swam in wonder and gratitude as the night reached out and made love to her. Further off, walking away from the sea -- a complex of new, ugly apartments which had just been built. Far, far off, away in the distance, the wreck of a ship was embedded into the horizon.
A Turkish freighter with a cargo of timber had got stuck on the twisted rocks some fourteen years earlier and there it sat, a rusty, static monolith of steel and decay.
Tourists sighted it and wondered why it was always there day after day and never shifted until someone pointed out that it would never move again. Eccola la perfezione che aveva sognato: Vicino alla riva mucchi di scogli formavano minuscole isole che catturavano la luce del sole; i bambini vi si arrampicavano, i genitori si allungavano su di loro. In lontananza, venendo via dal mare, un complesso di appartamenti nuovi, brutti, appena costruiti. She stared at it for hours and some- times shuddered as its dark form became symbolic of pure evil.
An unmoving malevolent presence that, as the shadows of night gathered, became even darker and evocative of damnation. The perpetual stasis of this great decomposing entity seemed truly to carve an incision in the sea.
When Kirsten drove her car along the dust road, running parallel to the beach, but at an elevated point, she would always look out for the shipwreck. And it never failed to appear, it always came round eventually and in a way it had become part of the sea, even as it tarnished it, ensnared by the rocks with which it had begun to fuse. Kirsten began to feel that in that shipwreck the secret of life lay hidden and gradually it occurred to her that she must somehow confront that shipwreck, come face to face with it.
One windy night when the moon was almost full she took out the little diving boat and gradually drifted all the way out towards the shipwreck, afraid and uncertain of what she would ind there but she knew that confronting her fear would bring her some kind of peace.
She half-expected to see grinning corpses. She felt her skin crawl as some nameless dread gathered all around her. She sat frozen at the back of the boat, trying to arrest even the tiniest of bodily movements, even her breathing, looking out for a predator which would leap out at her from the darkness. The moonlight caught patches of the watery membrane around her and the water was illed with unknowable things, and a dark beauty was born.
She inched forward and her horror grew as the waves snarled and crashed ever and again into the derelict hull, as though trying to knock dents in it, and weird phantoms were made in that clash between dead metal and water, weird reverberations that scurried across the body of the ship. Lo issava per ore e a volte rabbrividiva mentre la sua forma scura diventava il simbolo del male puro.
Quando Kirsten guidava lungo la strada polverosa, che correva parallela alla spiaggia, ma in un punto sopraelevato, con lo sguardo cercava sempre il relitto. E quello non mancava mai di fare la sua comparsa, alla ine si faceva sempre vedere e in qualche modo era diventato parte del mare, persino mentre lo ossidava, preso in trappola dagli scogli con cui aveva iniziato a fondersi. Una parte di lei si aspettava di vedere cadaveri ghignanti.
Adrenaline was shooting through every part of her as she pulled out her torch and pointed it at the ship. There, in its strong beam, she could make out a large rip in the metal and she lashed her torch into it, and inside a cold, abandoned world was partially revealed.
All that remained was the terrible shell of the exterior, locked into the rocky matrix below which had seized it and would never ever relinquish it. She moved her boat in closer, then closer still until it was shaking violently in the cur- rent. Then, when her little vessel was touching the great side of the freighter, she stood up and walked uncertainly towards the edge, her knees pressed against the side of the boat, and craned forward and passed both her hands through the great rip in the hull.
Her hands, then her arms, had slipped through to the other side, and she spread out all her ingers, then placed her ear against the cold hard metal wall and listened. The waves smashing against the ship boomed into her eardrum; the sound was magniied, colossal, it plunged into Kirsten with groping tentacles. She was engulfed in reverberating sound, sound compressed her every ibre. She was deafened, stupeied. What was it that lay on the other side?
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Why was she so desper- ate to reach it, to touch it? Why was she putting herself through this mad experience? What was it there that she was trying to touch with her outstretched ingers, their knuckles white and burning with tension?
Maybe that inal day which expires in night with no hope of remedying sunrise its cleansing hand thrust into the cor- ners of gloom and murk, lifting both as the purifying light exiles all shadows. Maybe she sought an ever lasting dusk, an ever-lasting shadow, a cessation of the senses. Scariche di adrenalina la percorrevano in ogni parte mentre tirava fuori la torcia e la puntava verso la nave.
Le onde che sbattevano contro la nave le rimbom- bavano nei timpani; il rumore era ampliicato, colossale, si tuffava in Kirsten con tentacoli annaspanti. Lei era inghiottita dal rumore riverberante, il rumore le comprimeva ogni singola ibra.
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carla maria russo la sposa normanna pdf editor
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