The Circles of the Night


Novel 

In one and a half years I wrote a short novel entitled “The Circles of The Night”: a nocturne love story between a lonely writer in his early 20s, Daniele, and a troubled creative director in his late 30s, Andrea, united by the feeling of not belonging to the emptiness of the contemporary society.

The story always develops at night-time, and is entirely narrated by Andrea to a woman, Lorenza, who never makes an appearance in the storyline.

In the last few pages we discover that the author is actually Daniele, and we are left with a few suspicions: has this story truly happened or is it just a literary outburst suggested by the mysterious Lorenza, who, at the end, seems to be his therapist? And if so, is it just a fictional love, or is it the imaginary encounter between the young writer and the person he fears he might become if he doesn’t overcome his profound, personal issues?

Here are the opening poem and the prolog.

I’ve searched for you
in the circles of the night
for so long now
that I no longer remember my name

but I don’t find you
in the sultry shadows
of cities
unknown to me.

Another sip
will help me

but you
don’t move.

Brussels, 3rd January 2013

 

Prologue

I am seated.
My body has the burden that gravity constrains me to and I feel it, sometimes cumbrous, sometimes weightless, as if I was losing matter from one moment to the next; from one thought to the next.
The blank screen on my monitor shines back at me as if it wanted to incite me. As if it’s reading right through my bones and knows that I need to do it. But I’m scared, Lorenza. Because writing makes everything become more real. Things shed their facade and I am able to see their essence. And I stand naked in front of them, as they are before me, and I get so self-conscious I can hardly breath.
But I have to write. Because this body that anchors me to the ground is full of who I am. And I need to write the name that it’s digging into mine. To give life to those words that follow me like a melancholic shadow.
Like the love I’ve never lived.
Like two initials entwined by a lunate epsilon.



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