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" Le Nick, azur plastique " is an unpublished collection of 220 epigrams that Giuseppe Loy finished a few months before his death.


In a salon of intellectuals I quote from memory an epigram of mine giving it illustrious paternity: laughter, approval, discreet applause and champagne.

Same game, same environment, but I quote the real author: smiles, indifference, cold compliments, mineral water.

To think about it calmly, however, it is right that it is so: futility requires some charismatic support.


Do not be anxious to find the line of my predetermined fracture: I will point it out to you myself. I know it well enough: I tunnel it day by day; with great effort and with the constant fear of being torn apart elsewhere.


The independence that the craftsman retains in the relationship with his work (looking at it from the outside, a certain automatism) acquires, over time, its minimal and essential nobility (is it the craftsman's style?) Photographing is also looking at that independence, giving margins of freedom to mechanics, optics, acids. The materials of the craftsman are banal and difficult to manipulate.


Being innocent depositories (but you have to prove your innocence with sure evidence) of anachronistic and absurd privileges, pass.

Play with them, believe in them and defend them, criminal.


Dear children, ask yourself, ask yourselves continuously.


Perhaps the most beautiful that has ever been invented is Russian, out of the blue, after the 20th Congress of the CPSU:

“A little bird is about to die in the frozen tundra. A cow passes by and unloads its poo on him. The bird slowly comes to light thanks to the heat and, for joy, begins to chirp. The wolf feels it as it approaches cautiously and eats it ”. This story has three morals:

  1. not always those who cover you with shit do it to a bad end

  2. not always those who take you out of shit do it for a good purpose

  3. but above all, don't sing when you're up to your neck in shit


(curiously, in Sardinian, "glances")

On the boundary wall of the former agricultural-penal colony of Castiadas (a town in southern Sardinia, once devastated by malaria) it should be written:

"This prison was built by the Piedmontese who did not understand that Sardinia was a place of pain, not of pain".


According to zoologists, man is the only animal that beats the female of his species. But, perhaps, there is a flaw in wording: man is the only animal that can claim to have his female, but it is not true. For this he beats her.


It is one of the few weapons that allows us to apply intelligence to everyday life.

But we Italians have - they say - little irony. But not for lack of intelligence: for lack of newspaper.


Beware of the jubilation, it preserves the brief contained joy, it breeds serenity, it cultivates for a long time the rational tranquility of the right premises. Obey the assiduously invented hope in the high moments of the promises made to yourself.

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