Dreptate

Dreptate

TacticalTeddyBear

Reads 12
Votes 1
Parts 3

MatureOngoing10m

Last published Thu, Aug 15, 2019

Fiction

Historical

Tagsdragosteinterzisa durere egalitate frațiidincolodeardeal istorie

Iubirea dintre doi oameni nu se bazează pe naționalitate. Aceasta este povestea lui Mihai, un tânăr de 17 de ani forțat de părinți să mintă despre vârsta lui pentru a lupta împotriva Imperiului Austro-Ungar în tranșeele ce pentru mulți prieteni de-ai lui urmau să devină loc de veci în carnagiul ce a fost Primul Război Mondial. În "aventura" lui, o întâlnește pe Sara, singurul copil al unei familii maghiare sărace, de care se îndrăgostește pe loc.

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In this novel, I try to lead the reader into an engaging account of a life lived, with an abundance and precision of episodes and experiences etched in my memory. Mine is a journey into a bucolic landscape and environment, which have marked me throughout my life. It is the experience and fortune of those who, like me, found themselves living through the period of transition from the life of the fields, made by toil and sweat of the hands, to mechanization and modernization. To make this journey backwards in my biography fascinating, there is then a succession of affections, of loved ones, of figures all peculiar in character and attitudes. The novel is, so to speak, a story within a story. Characters: za F'lumena, the grandmother with the strong character, the volcano always ready to explode, my father, Aunt Paola, Aunt Lina, Uncle Ferdinando, Uncle Armando, the barber-accordionist, the forester, the baker, the hairdresser, the old vintner (who at first presents himself as illiterate, but...), the traffic cop, the massaro (farmer) Luigi, who teaches me how to ride a horse, and his wife Carmela, an excellent cook, and Cerasella, grandmother's donkey. With Foxes Hill, I offer the reader a chance to open the treasure chest of life's memory, and to relive it. Childhood memories remain indelible in everyone's memory, and it applies to everyone. In this autobiographical account, through an exposition that is as simple and straightforward as ever from the point of view of expression, I recount my real experiences as a boy of just seven years old, who, alone and aboard regular buses (as many as three, for barely a hundred kilometers), in the hot summer of 1955

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