I think Henry did it, perhaps taking a bit 'chest that matter. I remember that one of the comments to the post last February, David Castiglione had mentioned, among other things, to a "cursed a little 'self-reported", that is, if I understand it correctly, something "put down", an anger a bit' but grim "poet" against a pain unwarranted, undeserved and responsibility generic and nuanced. To tell the truth I did not see much in that book, perhaps because Barbers not had it put that anger (but a "rage of race," as now), or did not have enough mass. But I think that even then it was merely a reluctance not yet passed the examination of a more conscious poetic work.
 
The truth is that no one really has a clear idea of ​​the real experience of an author, unless there is going in to do a job of investigation that no one today is more. Hard to say, in the end, if what strikes us is the "truth" or just something well acted (remember that Barbieri also theatrical experience). It remains the text, and the language in which it is written. Then everything returns to the language, which must be personal (and poetic than ever), and what emerges from it. I say this because, unlike the previous one, in this book I can see a different knowledge, a focus of the thing and the like, in other words a measure. But that did not dampen the vis, the note but not painful sore, the feeling of lack of sense in many accidents of life, the inability of salvation for herself and for those you love and also incazzatura, this yes, to a reality increasing social defeat, a province of Pavia which is not only geographical but also a reflection of a marginal individual, a province of the soul. In fact there is no distance, in hindsight, among the themes that permeate this book, which briefly identifies Julius Greek in the preface, in the painful but almost resigned observation of sick wife (some texts "stronger" and moving) and that not at all resigned evils, also described with sarcasm, of the local society, including the stretch of some lyrical references naturalistic and figurative description, according to symbols, characters encountered every day. Everything points to the fundamental loneliness of the individual, certain existential, but I would say as a disorganized political unity, or perhaps consciously anarchist, or dropout by choice, in which the figure of the author - "part of a crazy part normotype" - tends to overlap (but I certainly do not say that in his poetry is life and vice versa). And 'in this sense it dilated I play the "province" of Barbers.
 
What is interesting is that everything does not need convoluted syntactical twists, appeals indefinite, vocabulary sought, nor meters or shapes. The speech is directed, even apodictic, and thus, to put it in a nutshell, anything but twilight, the direction is clear, and I think the vein open. If the emotional level continues to be controlled, as if Barbieri wanted to establish a superiority and a distance "authorial", it seems instead to have been abandoned some "orality" of which I spoke last time, that this is a poem not looking so much the scene (metaphorically) because communication as is, as it stands, without any fuss, without bothering to look for among the many words which I had written in private, the "right", but without neglecting to give a body, a name, the "things". Of course, nothing innovative in a poem of this kind, simply because there is no need. But I think he, more than a lot of poetry "civil", a substance that some 'today has been lost and that it is good to find sometimes. And that look, as I had suggested to Henry, to answer the questions: what I mean? and how? That's not little. (G. C.)