Make Your On Wrestler Pic

Pino, director of Sassari Sera, the last of the muckrakers

(January 2008) happening since I left Sardinia. There are two dear friends of Sardinia, in particular, that, over time, have an obligation of the obituary phone. In the sense that when they call me on the phone, most times they do to tell the death of a mutual friend, an acquaintance of a person to whom I was particularly fond of during my years in Sardinia. When the phone rings and I see those two numbers or the names "Bruno" and "Easter" printed on the screen, it makes me sigh: "And now who is dead?". (Well, of course I exaggerate, fortunately, succede raramente: non c'è nessuna ecatombe di amici in Sardegna).
Così è successo ieri, una domenica nebbiosa, qui a Milano. Il primo a telefonarmi è stato Bruno, quasi un fratello, più che un amico: “È morto Pino Careddu, l’hanno detto al giornale radio”.
Già, Pino. Avevo 22 anni quando pubblicò il mio primo articolo. E da quel battesimo, per dieci anni, sino alla metà degli anni Ottanta, la frequentazione si fece intensa, sino all’inevitabile rottura di scatole da parte di entrambi. Non ricordo per quale motivo, ma ci ignoravamo ormai da parecchi anni (soltanto un incontro e un abbraccio frettoloso, qualche anno fa, in occasione del funerale del vecchio, caro In Di Salvo, his photographer trust in the times of the Roaring Sassa the Evening ). Perhaps because I liked his fight in defense of some of his friends whom we talk in the interview Pironti I quote in the queue. Maybe for "trivial reasons" as they say in the most heinous murders. Who knows. Ten years, however, when I lifted Pino to the role of master of writing and tough personal trainer. Pino Why was this: a great, great, great writer. Although he pretended not to know, this Maddalena-gallurese capable of irony and become poisonous Sassari arrogant, adventurous character and do not categorize, cultured, witty, quarrelsome and abusive yet elegant bon vivant and a great cook, a curious traveler, of which I never understood or digested his passion for the zoo's policy and everything that revolves around, but I always appreciated, shared many of his cultural interests (with many distinctions For example, he loved Céline, I do not), and especially the passion for writing, which consumed and regenerated indefinitely, until the last breath, that writing that model as well as Muhammad Ali would have done faced with a granite rock: with his fists, but dancing around, lightly, with the irreverence of the clown and magic propitiatory rite that accompanies the business impossible.

talk to you. That is: if you can not find the news, search for topics. When I met him, Pino wrote Careddu sull'Olivetti Letter 32. It was one of the two tools. The other was the recorder, who was in Pino as the Leica was a Cartier-Bresson, the father of modern photojournalism, when he said that the Leica was an extension of his gaze. Pino for the recorder was an extension of her voice, more flexible than the typewriter.
The Leica was an instrument of candid photography, candid recorder an instrument of journalism: the word photographed. Pino also used the recorder in his travels by car, for example, transfers from Sassari to Cagliari: speaking, recorded and then transcribed and wrote all his songs. He spoke as he wrote, that much. And if he had a conversation, it invented. Let me explain. Pino had a house in Alghero: overlooking the harbor, enjoyed a beautiful view, and had been leased by the widow of his deceased friend, unfortunately (I think, but I would not say a foolish thing, it was a judge). There he gave the phone to communicate with the outside world, and so he could carve out of the strategic health breaks of solitude. One day, Pino said that with the old owner, his friend died, was the "long and animated discussions." At the time I had to laugh, and said, "Well, of course, I after half a bottle of Vernaccia begin to speak with the dead. " But Pino was serious, so serious that I tried to do so. And I must say that today I find it quite well: hardly go to sleep, before they exchange two words with loved ones who are gone. But the letter said
32. A myth designed by Marcello Nizzoli in 1963, the successor to the equally popular Letter 22. Machines Museum of Modern Art, a show of genius that the legendary Italian company Olivetti has always used the best. Olivetti is just the keyboard layout QZERTY, comfortable, almost natural, that became the standard Italian, and that no accident was adopted by Apple, a company known innovative and attentive to the friendly relationship with the user. Today the most common standard is the QWERTY layout, an unnatural horror imposed by a bespectacled little man with white socks, Bill Gates, unfortunately adopted more recently also by Apple itself. And I say 'unfortunately' because I am a mac user forever, I experience this pain every day.
Letter 32 was a solid car, reliable, portable and easy to handle: it weighed nearly 6 pounds, a huge amount when compared to the feather weight of a modern notebook, but then, when cars had no power steering, had real men, by golly , not ladies. And then beat on those machines to write, act only era già un esercizio di stile, un genere letterario. Se penso alle tastiere dei nostri computer, oggi, mi viene da pensare che gli scrittori abbiano messo ai piedi le scarpette en poin te , da ballerina. La Lettera 32, invece, era un’altra storia, un incontro di boxe irripetibile e senza ritorno, ma non volgare. Mi viene in mente una definizione di Brera su Cassius Clay: una pantera di gesti armoniosi. Era così per Pino: scrivere era come comporre un’armonia in cui la melodia era soltanto un pretesto. La “melodia”, il tema, erano i fatti, i documenti, la notizia da cui partire. Il resto era improvvisazione, concatenarsi di frasi dinamiche. Il rumore tipico di quei tasti had rhythm, weird stuff bopper. Pino no coincidence made me think of Charlie Parker, another Virgin lion. Extravagant, cultured and brilliant. Excessive. One day he told me that a young man, he did not think he would arrive in 35 years: the years of "Bird."
very personal style of pine stands on a monster talent, and ability to improvise on the loose that beat upon the Letter 32. I have an image of that show, just connected to that machine. But, before exposing it in public, you need a premise. I started on Sassari Sera with a service on the Living Theater of Julian Beck, who arrived in Sardinia on the result of the large antiwar march organized by the radicals. A good work, so that already at the third number, Pino gave me a whole page dedicated to youth issues. For years I went on working on these things (then called "alternative culture"), writing of costume, music, books, stories "other" not covered in the newspapers of Sardinian cuisine. But Sassari Sera was, by definition, a political journal of information ", a newspaper with a unique history, created for a simple reason: to make out a story that other newspapers had deliberately concealed (described in the interview shown below). And, although often transfigured dall'irrisione of power typical of the "cionfra" Sassari and the attitude to not take things seriously damn series, the news came first. And Pino insisted that I take care of the news, especially local political news, which was not my forte. In fact, I was not interested. But in the end we found a compromise: I took charge, but in a satirical short, in line with the rag of Sassari. And things did not go badly messed up a lot, I was unconscious and pulled the sling as a street kid. But despite everything, Pino published everything, even if he disagreed, and indeed he would even obliquely, when they came threats of some politicians (remember, with gratitude, one thing: that when telephoned Socialist politician and manager, who said, "Look, as we know it, I can tell you, if you threaten, do worse"). In ten years, I think that did not change even a comma. Except once, you do not just change the comma, but rewrote everything. Completely. And that was the great lesson of Pino.
had happened. In my town, bridgehead with the speculation of big property developers and the market of subcontracting, there had been some arrests: white-collar workers, technicians of the municipality. The local political class was in turmoil, it was expected some kind of collapse. Needed to address this issue, but I had no news. Forced to write a piece, I had melina producing two pages of trivia, which I delivered personally to Pino, Sassari. Pino checked the piece, and I said that we could modify it, create more attention and expectations. But as we had no exclusive no news, nothing beyond what they had written the other papers. But, in fact, that was nice: Pine was also a great cook, and a great chef has an amazing ability to reinvent dinner leftovers for lunch. She put the typewriter, his Letter 32, an instrument of torture and redemption, upright, soft hands, nimble fingers, definite touch, and so a pound, a rate of bebop, a solid structure from which to launch the blues 'solo, improvisation. He spoke aloud and writing, said to himself, quickly, live, without looking back, without second thoughts. He spoke and wrote. If I had news, he had arguments: that was the difference. And so he built the piece in less than twenty minutes: perfect attack, carriage return on time, fulminant closing, no correction, just two small deletions with the fountain pen. He wrote it by listening to the words, her, rummaging through the archive of the dangerous knowledge of his excellent memory and a reporter, uncovering the nerves of all the interests and possible connections in an area he knew very well set off by the news, to talk of the characters, well-known actors but most of the items home runs, placing them on the board according to the harmony of an impromptu game of chance. He spoke and wrote. It began with the white collar workers, through allusions and collusion, and ending with the Magliana gang. A beautiful piece. And indeed, when the newspaper came out in my part, newsagents run out of copies within a few notch clock: in one morning.
Now reflect on that episode: Pino was subjected to the behavioral and clinical observation by an aide, not so much to discover and produce their neurotransmitters, but for a training session for mental stimulation, to motivate and evolved to form a runner who can handle the pace and the repeated long. And in fact, that lesson paid off: I autoinvitai to dinner by a contractor friend, and from there I began to deal with other topics with a less shy. On the first series, Pino gave a simpler way of those irreverent, funny, typical of Sassari Sera , but eloquent: "Cement and gangsterism." It was the early eighties, and I thank Pino, I spent my shadow line.

Parliament as Law. And now it's time to obituaries, to forgive and regret, I read the praise of some of his fellow journalist. And I remember an incident many years ago. We argued, we talked about his colleague. In short, to close the speech, Pino I said with a grimace of disappointment: "I had given the Gramsci's Prison Letters. A few years later, I happen to go to his house, and I see my books on the shelf, they were still incellofanati. I had not even open ". How to say and that's it, boy. How does a journalist Sardinian, not to be, I say never read, but not turned over the letters of Gramsci?

Write all write at all. Another episode? The fate of the ghostwriter. We invented and written, fifty fifty, the first book by a mutual friend. I accepted primarily for fun rather than out of gratitude towards my master's in creative writing: metà la scrivo io, metà la scrivi tu. Ne era venuto fuori un buon libro, curioso: la mia scrittura, se non combaciava con la sua, almeno si completava. Tanto che Epoca lo citò, in una recensione, come uno dei migliori cento libri dell'anno. E non solo: paragonò il suo autore a Truman Capote. Da morire dal ridere. Quando l'"autore" mi offrì metà dei diritti, rifiutai educatamente, o meglio gli suggerii di donarli alla ricerca sul cancro. "Nessuno deve niente a nessuno", come mi diceva Pino.
Mi era capitato diverse volte di fare il ghostwriter, ma sempre per amicizia (a parte una volta in cui preparai uno speech , pressato dalle insistenze di un amico, per il padrone di un'importante industria alimentare, ma si trattava di un innocuo discorso rivolto alla forza vendita). Però non capivo se fosse bene o male aiutare la carriera degli altri in quel modo. In genere, quando avevo di questi dubbi, mi consultavo con Pino. Che, in quel caso, liquidò la questione con poche parole: "Quando scrivo per gli altri, scrivo per me stesso".

Lingue tagliate e bo cche scucite. Un altro episodio chiarisce meglio un passaggio dell’intervista già citata di Pironti, pubblicata di seguito. Quando a Pino chiedevano se, giornalisticamente, pensasse di aver “fatto scuola”, si schermiva e rispondeva: “Più che una scuola, Sassari Sera è stata una specie di casa di tolleranza dove molti hanno fatto le prime esperienze sessuali”. E così si capisce meglio la frase lasciata in sospeso: “Questo è il giornale che gestisce le omissioni o le censure dei quotidiani sardi, è il giornale delle lingue tagliate. Se dovessi farti l'elenco dei giornalisti che hanno lavorato per me in incognito…”. Lingue tagliate che su Sassari Sera hanno fatto palestra. Insomma, casa di tolleranza o giornale di liberazione? Per quanto mi riguarda, voto per la seconda che ho detto. Ricordo un episodio. Ero giovane e collaboravo da qualche tempo con La Nuova . Allora, il responsabile delle pagine di Cultura era un robusto e sanguigno romanazzo col cognome da conquistador, Super Emo biographer Veltroni, passed unscathed from the newspapers of the PCI chain Caracciolo. Maybe he looked at me with a little 'sympathy, so that you permitted to call affectionately santamariagoretti , after the publication of my piece moderately desecrating the patron saint of my city, "Simplicio, dedicated and patient." But the sympathy ended suddenly, when I proposed an interview with an important person in the course, the professor Ghjuan Stromboni Batista, one of the founders of the Cultural Federations Scola Corsa, born in 1972, which was part of the awakening Courses in awareness for the preservation of ethnic language and greater autonomy political and cultural. Tough people, courses. Just Stromboni Scola Corsa and had contributed to the emergence of a true Island University (the university "Pasquale Paoli" had been closed by France after 1769). It was an important event for our historical cousins \u200b\u200bcourses, and I had done this interview a Stromboni. That certainly was not a soft little chap. So much so that I began to speak in French and he was silenced with the typical Praput "race" in a spoken francesu. Speak sardu, Gallura, italianu, but a parliament in francesu. " So I had questions in Italian-Gallura and he had replied in the Corsican language, I do not know if current or cismuntanu suttanacciu, but, in short, we understood very well in our free "discursive" cultural. I was amused as hell. He was coming off an interesting interview, and receiving the proposal along with photographs taken by my friend Rino, the person in charge of Culture, who had read with interest first, then with some disappointment, and finally with the contempt ' had refused. "Why?" I asked. He did not know what to say. But he was very serious, was passing himself off from intellectual. Sketch: "Why is missing ... because there is ... the contradictory ...". And why, I say, I must not leave a people that wants to talk get cocks his short, his own university? And then, according to the principle audi alteram partem, "I do, I invite the French president? But there was no way. These residues piccisti the autonomy argument did not sound at all well. "Never mind," I say defiantly, "so the public the same." "Where?" He says with a suspicious tone. And there he was meeting the head of the pages of entertainment, low, low voice, in short, at times crawling on the ground, say the name of shame: "On Sassari Sera ... he works for ... Sassari Sera. " The Romanazzo still did not know. And there ended my collaboration con il quotidiano localizzato alla estrema periferia della catena Caracciolo-L'Espresso. Nessun giornale sardo aveva pubblicato la notizia dell’Università in Corsica. Pino pubblicò immediatamente il pezzo, e due settimane dopo, quando ci incontrammo, mi disse che i Còrsi erano molto contenti. Bene, vuol dire che daremo il numero di telefono del romanazzo ai nostri cugini. Così, tanto per fare “contraddittorio”...

Il gigante gentile. A vent’anni avevo un grosso handicap: non ero mai stato in Corsica. Esagero se parlo di handicap? Insomma, che volete, io lo consideravo uno svantaggio, un vero problema: me lo trascinavo dall’infanzia, per colpa di mio padre. Mi spiego. Mio father, cork-trees, had a partner in Porto-Vecchio, Corsica often went in, and the stories he told me was fascinated, for example, when he was the victim of an ambush in shots of buckshot, while driving down a street with his partner tortuous (as established then the police, of course, this had been an exchange of people, however, my father, who among other things, was not a sweet little chap, for fear he lost his voice for some time). Santa, his partner, the "Praput" race, the magnificent nature, wild character, everything was fascinating island. So, whenever my father was leaving, I asked him to take me with him, but without success. Now I know why (questions di prudenza: non so se avete letto i romanzi di Jean-Claude Izzo, ma i corsi sono sempre i più spietati), ma quella privazione di avventura - per un bambino svezzato con le pagine di Dumas, Kipling e altri capitani coraggiosi - rimase a lungo nel mio cassetto dei desideri.
Mi era capitato di parlare di queste cose con Pino, così, tanto per sorridere. Io avevo già sepolto l’argomento, sinché, con mia grande sorpresa, Pino mi disse, tutto serio: un giorno andiamo insieme in Corsica. Sul momento non dissi niente, anche se pensai: sì, me li immagino, il vecchio e il bambino... Ma, ripensandoci adesso, provo una certa commozione pensando a come Pino, che a volte mostrava un gigantesco carattere legnoso, si offrisse al prossimo in un modo così gentile.
Pino si definiva un “viaggiatore diligente”. Tra gli altri, aveva due amori, che condivido: il Portogallo e il sud della Francia. Non so dire se la Corsica fosse un altro suo amore, ma sicuramente l’isola, per lui maddalenino cresciuto nei rudi paesaggi di Squarciò, era un approdo naturale, conosciuto, soprattutto nel punto intermedio tra il sud e il nord dell’isola, tra Bocognano, Bastelica, Vizzavona, dove andava d’estate; mentre durante l’inverno andava ad Ajaccio, quando è tempo di oursinades, di imbrucciate, di tartes au brocciu. Quando gli chiedevo se era meglio il mare o l’interno, non si sbilanciava, diceva che erano due paesaggi diversi the soul, but I knew that he preferred the inside, the mountain because he was congenial, suited to its sense of mystery, like a landscape photographed in his book "From Mount Gold peeps a moon veiled in egg white. There is plenty wet night here. The mist rises and batting dialogue Maremma a wolf in the dark. "
The mountain race: it has a particular fascination, I know it when I brought my son, still young, for the first time in Corsica, not the sea, but there where still lingers the spirit of Pasquale Paoli, between the chestnut trees . I did it by following the track by Pino contagious. And I'm not wrong, it is true that this other little Virgin grappling with the mysteries of life decided to make the first out of the bath tub, that is his first trip without the pushy father, but with more forgiving girlfriend, just in Corsica. And so the tradition continues.
of Corsica, Pino speaks in his books. And it was natural that a journalist Sardinian attentive to the evolution of the news could not help but devote particular attention to a region so close and mysterious (not only for his doubts traffic with Marseille and Toulon), for example during the period that are experiencing the dangerous intersection of Sardinian banditry and separatism course. Pino, in his books, becomes an improbable Mediterranean pre-Castro Cuba, creating a setting where the film interweaves the pessimism of meat with the Pink Panther, that is, with its comic effect on him. Here I report an excerpt from Plot .

MAIL FROM SIDI BOU SAID

Mirtha [...] We sipped iced pastis and exchange with the small group of gentlemen cazzutissimi: grisaille clear and someone had dressed the panama draped in mourning as it should be that of the grandfather of Jean Paul Belmondo. Vizzavona came to the same back in the summer, landed at Bastia silage after their powerful cars in the ferry from Toulon. Of the latter group was a few years ago by distributing gratuities in exchange for bowing and respectability, I knew what I said the owner of the old but decent shelter at the foot of Monte Oro. The opportunity to exchange impressions with the patron, and in a tone reserved Controra, while those aspiring to the Legion of Honor melted overdressed in exhausting petanque tournament, losing fat and dignity as any monsieur Ducon that has no other purpose in life beyond the game bowls and confidences tight-lipped.
was, that, without a very predictable Brigade Jean Gabin, who spoke in slang and that we find the export format look at the sumptuous dinner time, when the wives of the great witches retired officers admitted to kissing the youngest guests, or old men now gallant of the Third Estate. For some years there was
a feeling by people of the world between me and these unfriendly bourgeois between sixty and seventy. In the next table heard my voice broken with fabrications aimed at the grand officers overseas, with wit and feigned disinterest.
Vizzanova According to our host, the group was part of a senior police officer, Monsieur Kosma, who had wanted to spend his career in Vichy Marshal Petain to report to the wonders of the liver and generally to get those guts naturally carbonated springs and declared utilities. Another was the gallery in Avignon. A third, Vitigny, helped Gaston Deferre, the stainless Socialist mayor of Marseille, a run at things in the largest port Commercial of France. A fourth, perhaps called Carreras, was a native of the Camargue, where he had reinvested the gains made with a soft cheese in the largest shipping company that controlled the ferry for Central Italy, Tunisia and the main national ports, especially those of Corsica, with bureaux d'affaires in Brest and tourism interests in Bandol, on the motorway linking Nice to Marseilles. In short: it was half a dozen gentlemen who loved strutting and severe outdoor pissing in the forest before we said goodnight [...].

A lesson in journalism with the apron. When I started working with Sassari Sera, did not know much either Pino nor of his newspaper. I was young and I am comforted by the fact that journalists would write in the newspaper, undercover or not, from the whole constitution and not, in short, by the Socialists to the Communists, the Christian Democrats, the Radicals, the former Lotta Continua. There was everything, and the multiplicity of voices was a guarantee of freedom. However, among the many topics, occasionally surfaced masonry. I asked for some clarification in Pino, who dismissed the whole affair: "I calmly explain," he said. "I am a Mason, but they are in sleep." Strange, I thought, how does one be so cute to sleep? In short, I was half moron. But suspicious. And so I turned my girlfriend at the time, a German reporter who toured the world, bigger than me and generally more informed, and asked if he knew something of Freemasonry. She knew nothing, then remembered that what he called his "first father" (his mother was divorced) was a Mason. He said, "But do not do anything special. They meet. Do things. Dealing with charities. " In short, the nice old people, all dedicated to the next. I had to wait for the explosion of the scandal of the P2 lodge for further information. But no longer confronted with the argument Pino, perhaps because I thought his was a coherent choice anyway, as a layman unrepentant, perhaps in order to avoid further tragic disappointment about my generation, as when he revealed that several former sessantottino had applied to enter the masonry.

say, do, eat and sleep. Careddu Pino was a generous person? I do not know. Sure, I know that it had its own code. One day a mutual friend, what he called "the American friend" told him that I was back in Sardinia for a short period, for a person to whom I was particularly fond of, then that was my older sister had the surgery Sassari for cancer. She had learned only after my return to Milan, my trip to Sardinia, my two hundred kilometers round trip between my cittadina e Sassari, e mi aveva telefonato trattandomi con molta durezza. Mi avrebbe messo a disposizione la sua casa sassarese, e io non l’avevo informato. Se la prese così tanto che non ci parlammo per un po'. Per me era un problema di discrezione, insomma non mi sarebbe mai passato per la testa di chiedergli le chiavi di casa (in cui, comunque, mi era già capitato di mangiare e dormire, quando ero un po' più giovane e squattrinato, e, insomma, le case di Pino le avevo girate tutte: Sassari, Baja Sardinia, Alghero, con e senza fidanzate), per lui invece era un problema di amicizia. Ma come, mi dicevo, non era lui che disprezzava la nostra “cultura degli stazzi”? Indecifrabile Pino.

All and none. Pino was a powerful storyteller capable of strong performances, elegant and cultured, funny, tongue and venomous, and transferred this characteristic in the newspaper, which distributes its many facets through pseudonyms. Vice of the pseudonym I adjusted myself, out of necessity (also published in the newspaper pages of satirical design) and for fun. One was Banduleri , the nickname playful but also very uplifting every time I buckled my father because of my frequent wanderings "creative" youth, and Pino continued to use later for themselves and other employees, when I stopped publishing in his journal. In short, he and I recognize in the figures of wandering? Not bad. In the end, but very basically, the tradition of the wandering storyteller, on the road, from Hank Williams and Woody Guthrie, had excellent parents. And now I wonder: it was irony, or what? It was an attitude different from that of some journalists with an Ermine. A healthy way to poke fun and demystify the profession understood as caste. As the songwriter said that "just songs"? Not exactly. Say, a way to stand out from those that if they sing and if menano. For as Hikmet wrote: masons sing / singing seems easier. / But pull up a building / not sing a song, / is a business / very more serious.

Take the A Train. Pino wrote like a train. Now I'm not always tell if he took the right train, but was like a train o. He began writing as a kid, if I remember correctly in 16 years, vice corresponding to the island of La Maddalena La Nuova Sardegna , and since then had not stopped since, producing an immeasurable amount of pages written (no co Ntare, then, the business of radio and television). This logorrhoea ordered and coherent (well, it was not a mental disorder: it was his work with an extraordinary passion), lack of time (although little sleep), the obligation to close with unque the newspaper on time, etc., compel the porticoes, provided in some cases not to file, not to get lost in the subtleties of the writer. Sure, he was so good that he could afford to turn a text after a quick reading. And yet he knew that the paper produced on n would end in Treccani: the newspaper is a product of immediate consumption, and its destiny ends when the kiosk down the shutters el'edicolante he goes cas to (with some exceptions: for example, when the his journal was copied and acted like a baton from opposing factions, but I would not be misunderstood, because the newspaper considered "scandal" was not the revenge of the official slammed on the table or turn as boss of the pies in the face of the vintage Sassari Sera were sip, see and looted by those who wrote books and preparing the thesis). But, with his first book in the series yellow (which defined "involuntary yellow"), put the problem on the final results. And, on the occasion, he asked me for help. Who refused. And this is my gripe, which is not given by a in the form of envy (God forbid) that book, those books, I would not write, but write them in the sense che avrei voluto rivedere i co llegamenti, addolcire certi passaggi, togliere le nebbie e i messaggi cifrati, abbattere gli ostac oli, renderli omogenei, più universali, e quindi comprensibili anche a chi è estraneo alle cose sarde.
Ma c’era anche un problema di stile, a cui Pino non era insensibile. Tutt’altro. Ma il tempo era quello che era. Per lui, che era un giornalista di razza, contava la notizia. Per me, che f acevo ormai un altro mestiere e avevo altre passioni, la forma era la sostanza. Perciò, se Pino mi chiedeva di aiutarlo a rivedere le bozze, è perché, appunto, sapeva di rivolgersi a un maniaco della forma (But were different times, now prefer to say that the substance: I am perhaps invecchian do?). I would never bear to read "Interpol", or "island" in French without the circumflex accent. He could do without it, he could do very well as karaoke or recite Brel Brassens, he rubbed his highly of the caret. E p or, to think of it as he's wrong: the caret is not even a sign of freedom. In fact, let's face it, this canopy accommodating, good for the middle class home and family with the agreement in place, is a sign that contract and steep liver on itself, so moscio. Un segno diacritico di abbandono fisico e morale. Perciò sopprimiamolo, perbacco.
Quando Pino finì di scrivere Plot , io mi trovavo in Sa rdegna. Venne avvisato dal solito amico che, evidentemente, non aveva modo di farsi gli affari suoi, e mi telefonò per chiedermi di andare ad Alghero per un full time di rilettura, correzioni e montaggio definitivo. Rifiutai per due motivi: pr ima di tutto, perché avevo deciso di dedicare quei pochi giorni alla mia famiglia e soprattutto a una persona malata; in secondo luogo, perché non ho mai accettato ordini, e Pino, all’inizio della sua malattia, era diventato un po’ più coriaceo e duro del solito in relations with the proximal mo. I suggested he send the proofs to Milan, where I could work quietly, but he opposed the idea and , citing "security" could not be entrusted to the postal service so delicate a document (then the computer was not widespread and did not exchange files). And there I thought, smiling here Pino grappling with the usual ghosts of his plots real or imagined, conspiracy, intelligence, play and control networks and who knows what else. The work of Pino, the counter, the scandals, investigative journalism and of the complaint, had left him and a few habit forming too short, a mental structure I was close. In fact, beginning to digest Starmie.
refuses to help Arlo - rightly, in my point of view - and, as happens in these cases, we talked for a while ', carefully cultivating the usual diet of deprivation because of contacts and acrimonious silence. After some time, the same friend came back to Milan after a trip to Sardinia and told me: "Pino has accompanied me to the airport. All the time, did nothing but talk bad about you, he says the things of an evil ...". What do you do in cases q Standard grease? Before you wonder if your partner have crept in doubt about your person, because the evil does not wash no easy, short, have not yet invented a bubble bath that makes these miracles. So smile and say: "I know how it's done Pino. He spoke ill of me? Well. But maybe you can not even intangible ginare what it says about you. "
So, dear Pino, fencing master and malice, now that you've got a final train, which does not bring itself to eastern Brooklyn to Harlem Manhattan northern direction, but do not know where to go, now I tell you, evil for malice: I learned this lesson well?

Simpathy for the devil. When I met Sassari evening? In the sixties, in high school. Times of strikes, occupations and assemblies. The grammar school that I attended with alternate misfortunes, was a quiet place. More agitated was the high school and headed by a dean rather gruff and much feared, a priest well known in Gallura. Sassari Sera dedicated a column, describing it as "a priest with a black shirt to his feet." It was an expression of murderous, unthinkable in a newspaper Sardinian and Fascist priest, but when ever. It was there that the spark went off, my sympathy for the log-Pino.

Chill'è crazy. in high school I had a professor of Italian who kept me in discrete consideration. In the sense that when I called for the question, asked me what you want to talk? And I, of Machiavelli, according to Cross. He made me say four things, then: good, eight, go to the place. In short, the fact is that he liked my themes, so defer to my note fannullaggine. He was lenient with us and had established a relationship of trust. He lived with his wife, also a teacher, a short walk from the school. At that time I was passionate about poetry, and he helped me to cultivate this interest is often went to see him, to let them judge what I write, to talk about this and that. The funny thing was the contrast: me, boy controversial, Chairman of the Board of students so its antagonist, wandering guitar player, long hair and jeans worn; him, short hair, gold rimmed glasses, very serious, very measured and decent man. It was one of those intellectuals Campania dry-looking, to Eduardo, serious, and yet capable of unexpected humor. One day I went to see him for a chat with the usual cultural and, to my surprise, I found him struggling with the Corriere della Sera pages open economy. He looked at me, sensing my surprise, and I said, very seriously, "G., we should begin to deal with these things." By "us," clearly meant "we intellectuals." Economics? Finance? I replied immediately dismissing the matter, without elaborating: yes, of course. I thought, from ignorantello, maybe that was just a mortgage, some investment, a supplementary pension, other than economics. When I left, I thought the comedy by Eduardo always tell him yes . In short, I told myself: chill'è crazy. I was ungrateful.
This incident came to my mind thinking about another story that happened with Pino. In the early eighties Pino and his newspaper took a "pause for reflection". He had gone out a new daily newspaper, an attempt to create a counterbalance to La Nuova Sardegna Sassari. It was called The Island , founded on the initiative of the family of a builder, but was short-lived: eighteen months of activities that are opposed, a few copies sold, the first director, Roberto Stefanelli, replaced after just seven days. Pino had been called by the newspaper and asked me to cooperate. We talked, I asked about his role, and said he was responsible for the pages of Culture and Economics. He said one of his usual grimacing, squinting, making the person who knows a lot. What he thought: Culture and Economics were the heart of a newspaper, the strategic area, the thing that can affect and explain the world. He gave me the impression of chill'è crazy, my old professor of Italian, and I had to wait a bit read most appropriate or critical reading of the texts purchased for the examinations of Economics, to see how I was stupid, and that neither the field nor old professor Pino were wrong. Better late than never.

At breakfast the assassination. When I started working with Sassari Sera, writing was in the alley Bertolinis, Sassari. I went to see Pino by train or my old Dyane 6, a car a bit 'unhinged, that when you take a hole and started the wipers do not stop. "Deliriumtremens" was produced in 1968 and already showed signs of dangerous disorientation. So I preferred the train: I'd like walk the line leading from the station to the newspaper, the historic area. Spent to greet an old classmate who was an optician, and then I climbed the narrow stairs and dark. Every now and Pino took me to a restaurant called the Murderess , who is now a place a bit 'more dandy, but then had a receipt from charming "Ziller, with older who drank directly to the counter for speeding from the glass bottle (it was on a Capuchin hospice: an entire program), and then a small room with a few tables where you could order dishes and household: pedi of lamb ni, ie legs of lamb garlic parsley, donkey meat, tripe, snails (not ciogga minudda or slugs, but monzette), sea bream and octopus, and especially the cordula with peas, which I and Pino were greedy (although I preferred gallurese version which is a cross between cordula and banks, with slow cooking on the spit: the intestine surrounds the intestines, liver and other, not just pieces of stomach). Pino came and I sat in the kitchen, where he could choose. Menu-Gallura Sassari. The owner and Pine knew each other and spoke in dialect, so under the supervision of that great chef who was Pino, always ate very well.
One day we were three of us: me, him and his son Aldo, who was young and, like everyone at that age, a bit 'in conflict with the father figure. I was in the middle - for reasons of age - and trying to reconcile. They all spoke quietly, holding off every man his temper, but pointless, so that, at some point, to divert the discussion, I said, damn, there are three of the Virgin, which is why we are so boring. Pino E, for some reason, I reproached this thing a long time: "But I'm boring." In vain I told him that in fact, astrology, knew nothing, and that he was not at all boring. There was no way. There was no way to retract, with Pino: if it is true that life is un film, lui era un regista stile “buona la prima”. Probabilmente perché aveva troppe cose da raccontare, per perdersi con il cazzeggio degli attori.

Eppure il vento soffia ancora. Pino era anche un musicofilo, un ingordo consumatore di musica. Un giorno mi domandò: “Al di là di tutto, non pensi che, alla fine, il più autentico cantore di un’epoca sia Pierangelo Bertoli?”. Domanda insidiosa, pensai immediatamente. Insidiosa, perché lui sapeva benissimo che io ero molto refrattario a quella corrente emiliano-romagnola che parte da Guccini, passa per l'orchestra Casadei e finisce con Vasco Rossi; e che avevo gusti movimentisti e al limite (sbagliando) preferivo un Finardi a Bertoli. And then, not for anything else, but around it was said that Pino had broken a friendship over a decade for a violent argument about Frank Zappa. And so it took time, like a strategic pause craxiana thirty seconds before answering with a coward: "I do not know."

giving you, and sometimes take. I remember an interview with Gianni Letta, celebrated weaver and Berlusconi's political master of ceremonies. The interviewer asked about the origin of his gifts as "diplomatic." And Letta cited his experience in a local newspaper. When you work in a local newspaper, said more or less read, and write a person, then you know that you happen to meet that person on the street, which in the end you will have to reckon with. Hence the origin of his diplomacy. Even Careddu
Pino wrote in a local newspaper, but it was a chamberlain, and was anything but diplomatic with men de panza. Polemical in his battles won or lost, ready to attack even his friends, he did not use special concern towards power. Gibi Puggioni, a journalist who made his bones in the log-Pino, recalled an episode that speaks volumes sull'irriverenza Pino. "There was a chance meeting in Sassari, during a ceremony between him and the then Archbishop of Oristano. Pino attacked him for something that concerned land of the Church. When she stood before him, gave him her hand and said with a smile: - Good morning, Your Excellency, still at large? ". Pino was so, remember Gibi: For a joke, who knows what would have been played.
But it was not just for the sake of mockery or jokes that Pino Careddu had chosen for himself the role of journalists uncomfortable. As reflected in the processes, the battles, his melee with local power. Unlike some celebrity and beautiful statues of national journalism, Pino gave it, and sometimes he took in the true sense of the word: one day he told me when I waited in the house to give him a thrashing. But he spoke not with nonchalance, without giving weight. As if everything were normal, as if everything was part of the game of life.
However, as Pino impressed me with these stories in Kazan, since then, and some time later when I returned home I opened the door warily, waiting for some unlikely cuckoo clock.
Speaking of hand-to-body with the power: here I reproduce the cover of a book by Pino Careddu, Assassiga . Subtitle: "Traces of previous life of the man who aims to control the center-right in Italy." Brilliant book, in the sense that here the genius of Pino indulges rancor between arsenic and old with a fierce writing. Emblematic book on one of the great ghosts of pine: the so-called Young Turks Democrats, l'ex presidente Cossiga. Scriveva Pino nella prefazione: "Questo libro - assemblaggio di personaggi e avvenimenti - è stato ultimato quattro mesi prima delle dimissioni anticipate di Francesco Cossiga. Doveva essere un instant-book. Invece l'autore lo ha messo da parte convinto che il penultimo presidente della Repubblica non facesse più notizia. Sbagliò, evidentemente: il grande fantasma della Prima ha ripreso ad attraversare l'Italia della Seconda Repubblica. Cossiga non ha mai cessato di essere un notabile di inquietante attualità".

Malvagìa e altri grand cru dell'esistenza. Come dicevo, Pino era un grande scrittore, spesso incline alla satira e alla caricatura. Quando pensavo come collocarlo nell’ambiente springs of journalists and intellectuals Sardinians, imagine a field full of Smurfs-intellectual regime, funny cuccarumeddi, where stood a completely different thing, a beautiful Amanita. Nice to look at poisonous to touch. This was Pino could be distinguished. And that distinction, in short, his specialty I liked most was given by a deadly mix between the minute attention of Hogarth and the violence of Street Art Why was cultured, sophisticated, and popular. It made me think of the "careers" of Hogarth, with his meticulous style of the portrait and fantaracconto in progress, then dilated and drooling with an excess of color, with a hint of vulgarity popular, with ferocious joke or scratches di un giovane writer di strada.
Sono andato a rivedere alcuni suoi libri, in particolare Malvagìa , il secondo della serie di pseudo gialli caratterizzati dalle belle copertine disegnate da un grande pubblicitario suo amico di lunghissima data, Gavino Sanna. L’ho aperto proprio lì dove mi aveva scritto una dedica, con la solita penna stilografica, con quella sua scrittura minuta e strana, ordinata, in parte rotonda, in parte aguzza: A G., piccolo-grande scienziato delle parole “in libertà vigilata” . Era il mese di maggio del ‘91, e mi aveva inviato questo libro, con quel suo accenno polemico al mio "tradimento", alla mia attività di pubblicitario and chained to the words (though, dear Pino as "probation"? A publisher does not make you more free or more or more uncut emancipated from a producer of mozzarella, in short, surely you read the newspaper La Casta Beppe Lopez. ..). Then we met and we talked. What do you think, "he said. What do I think? What is your book. And so to sardonicchiare. In the sense that I am adjusting to Pino, the cryptic language, the fact of imitation, with references, citations, mostly implied. Pino was thinking like Goethe, in the discussions that must first be agreed at least on a cultural level, otherwise the threads are useless. Between me and Pino were twenty years of difference between us so there was no real discussion, but implied. Once my wife - which was not even my wife - she had seen these "discussions" and he told me: "I did not understand anything." Sometimes I even understand what I said Pino, I had responded. And I'll tell you more about this: do not even understand what I say.
We understood, however, we wanted to. When I went to Pino and seek together the most characteristic episodes of the book, we were immediately agreed. For example, the "pretty" picture in which Pino, wonderful caricaturist, describes that world of notables and peripheral boss and that he knew so well attended, which makes lying down naked in the operating room of her fictional ring, sections and then exposing the parties less than noble in his journal in his books, showing the direct decomposition, dissolution necrotic. It is the chapter entitled Senator Jaco, where the writing becomes less Pino modern, less jazzy, rather it is calm, expanded, slow, thoughtful, comic overture as we look to other wreckage, and captivating as this insidious in Gioconda by Ponchielli. Here is the first part: a beautiful, merciless caricature of a powerful Democratic boss. Senator Jaco. If you think about it. These are incredible men who have occupied distraught and devastated, with their clan, my island for decades. And I'm afraid that their godchildren and grandchildren will not be better. Also because there are the blows "pedagogical" Pino Careddu, journalist and counter-suit, wise traveler, food and wine on their own.

Senator JACO Jaco

Senator was on the desk the note left by his secretary, Cavalier Gribaldi. The Secretary had pointed out in a special way, perhaps to avoid that end up in the trash immediately. Officer of Post retirement, he was allotted an employer who hated letters, cards and telegrams. The day had decided to conduct the business of this current politician who had resisted for so many years, il senatore aveva guardato sprezzantemente la corrispondenza che si era accumulata sul tavolo, dopo giorni di vagabondaggio tra la bouvette di Palazzo Madama, la casa in costruzione in Costa Smeralda (grazioso omaggio dell’on. Tassalabria) e gli ovili del nord dell’Isola. Rivolgendogli poche delle sue rarissime parole, il senatore gli aveva chiesto: “L’ha letta?”
“Non mi sarei mai permesso,” aveva risposto sommessamente il segretario.
“Ha fatto bene, la distrugga.”
Il cavaliere, che conosceva per sentito dire la sua stranezza leggendaria, cercava i suoi occhi a fessura da guerriero mongolo e non trovava altro conforto che in un gesto molle e sprezzante della mano.
“È people who have time to waste. Nobody has to tell me things I do not know. I decide what is important. "
Knight had diligently recorded phone calls, not many. And, perhaps because the others had already lost, absorbed from the telephone network, had not met a chilly by the senator. The senator if he list, and gave its provisions.
"Usually, it's me that I call when I can not do without, but to say that I called. I refer to only these calls in the following order: the Secretariat of the Presidency of the Republic, my wife, my brother Angelino. "
" And the other, Senator? "
" The catalogs ogni fine settimana. Potrebbe tornarmi comodo verificarle.” Aveva detto proprio così: “Le cataloghi.”
“E se telefonano i suoi figli?”
“Loro non hanno bisogno di telefonarmi. Comunque, lasci scritto in evidenza il suo recapito telefonico in tutti i posti in cui gli è possibile, in modo che mi entri in testa. Ha capito, cavalier Gribaldi?”
E il cavaliere obbedì. Aveva capito che il posto più frequentato in quell’ufficio era l’ampia e comoda toilette in cui il senatore si faceva inghiottire insieme a uno smisurato fascio di giornali; perciò, per lasciare il suo recapito telefonico, cominciò da quel vano, sino ad arrivare alla poltrona-letto sempre scosciata, with a Scottish plaid incredibly rumpled, with a calendar on the left headrest, messy and full of indecipherable signs, with the months passed already barred by a relentless X. That scary mess.
Sure Senator Jaco believed that the printed schedule of more frequent consultation, the rider wrote down his phone number in each of the twelve pages. But the rider who did not escape the contorted that illustrious writer were all clotted around the numbers indicating day. It seemed that every issue of each day of the month did the lead in a procession of crosses, plus signs of, and for less, and letters of an alphabet stranger who was not greek - the cavalier Gribaldi was able to recognize, having been reared by an uncle, canon, nor Latin, Cyrillic, perhaps, in other words indecipherable. What was the stock of the thoughts of that particular politician? Perhaps the Senator was using that calendar to dismantle its secret fearing that someone would dare rubarglieli in your sleep?
But sleep was that of Senator, in the long days spent in the kennel room always dark and dirty? The stops in the bathroom were long and painful. The rider felt the senator coughing, long and rhythmically scrape his throat with a series of double explosions: one, as imitated with his mouth, and soon after, the authentic one of a powerful flush petulant powered by an autoclave system. From triangolo di luce che proveniva dalla stanza con la porta semiaccostata in cui lavorava l’ex ispettore postale cavalier Gribaldi, si vedeva la figura furtiva dell’uomo politico che faceva una spola talvolta incessante tra poltrona-letto e bagno, tra bagno e poltrona-letto, che forse non si sarebbe neppure notata se quell’uomo massiccio non fosse stato claudicante.
Dopo ore di permanenza del senatore nella toilette, immerso nel suo perenne colloquio con l’impianto idrico, e spesso dopo giorni, il cavaliere trovava i fasci di giornali che lui stesso ritirava nell’edicola vicina. Giornali che apparivano come dimenticati, come se non servissero a niente, neanche buoni da leggere o almeno da sfogliarsi, come se meritassero soltanto revulsion, as if they were written in the language of another planet, as if they had ever been printed. And sometimes, when the toilet was beginning to look like a newspaper stock returns, at that moment the senator seemed like a ghost, his eyes more and more Mongolians cracked, and asked: "What the newspapers say?" Then he disappeared without even waiting a response. But
such as newspapers, and what day? Perhaps the senator had asked someone to read them on his own: a service outside the office?
The other thing that seemed incredible, a knight, was the huge supply of disinfectants in plastic bottles, where they sensed a clear liquid such as water, che non sembrava neppure alcool, oppure lo era e aveva perso il colore originale. Il cavaliere, con molta discrezione, non aveva mai annusato quel liquido; evitando, quando non era indispensabile, di aprire gli sportelli del grande mobile a specchiera che occupava la parete più larga di quel vano molto riservato. Talvolta si permetteva di riportare nel bagno quella plastica vuota che l’illustre padrone di casa abbandonava ai piedi della poltrona-letto. Pensava, il cavaliere, che forse aveva qualche ferita segreta, molto privata, il senatore Jaco. In effetti, c’erano dei periodi in cui egli si ricoverava, spesso nelle vigilie elettorali, occupando l’intera ala di un ospedale, un reparto con pochi ammalati e tante stanze libere, ed erano those times when the senator appeared clean-shaven, with a beautiful silk striped pajamas, his eyes finally opened and throat that made him more harm. Often unable to refrain from going to the bathroom too, busy as he was to receive friends and gifts, his wife and children, the prefect and some deputies.
Dress convalescent, was a handsome man in his own way, the Hon. Jaco. He smiled, even, but not much, and listened a lot, giving few answers, so stingy, as a specialist emeritus at the time of the fateful verdict. But what became ill, senator, whenever he had to beat a rug on the territory of his constituency? Yet, in this land where absent at before the elections, returned after being re-elected to the top of the list, the thousands of participating parties given in his honor in the homes of the rich country and the far pens of cattle and sheep owners.
Over time, the Cavalier Gribaldi he understood many things about the mysterious man that someone called the Boar . That that office was like a den, and the man he needed that time to nest and inexplicable and long walks in the bathroom to hatch his legend of a man feared and unreachable, frightfully rich and economical. The most significant expenditure of that office was the water bill, which came twice a year, since quella del telefono non arrivava mai, anche se il telefono veniva comunque usato, raramente e soltanto per sollecitare le telefonate degli altri. Non arrivava neanche la bolletta dell’energia elettrica: per caso l’onorevole la ricavava da qualche altro locale segreto che egli non aveva mai visto? Era un sospetto avvalorato dagli strani rumori soffocati che provenivano dal sottotetto [...].

L’ultimo dei muckrakers. Una volta avevo definito Pino “l’ultimo dei muckrakers”, ma sapevo che la definizione non gli era piaciuta, forse per via di una certa ambiguità del termine; e poi i muckrakers non piacevano neanche a Theodore Roosevelt, che soffriva di attacchi d’asma, soprattutto per le “esagerazioni” di chi a furia di pulire, spazzare e rastrellare il muck , insomma a furia di guardare per terra, non alza mai gli occhi al cielo e non vede le cose belle, “le cose buone dell’America”. Ma io mi riferivo alla migliore tradizione dei muckrakers americani, giornalisti-scrittori-agitatori che impugnavano il rastrello ( rake ) per spazzare il letame ( muck ) che insozzava la nazione americana. Giornalisti investigatori che, a cavallo tra il 1800 e l’inizio del 1900, denunciarono le condizioni di vita nei quartieri poveri, nelle industrie, nelle miniere, lo sfruttamento minorile, eccetera: accusati di essere “socialisti” and "communists", those early muckrakers were the ancestors of contemporary American journalism, progressive, than those of Watergate Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein, through the lawyer of Ralph Nader's consumer rights, up to Michael Moore. In short, I was just leaning against a clear definition of Benjamin Placido, "The muckrakers were journalists first, second good are outraged Americans, are in third place shocked the good journalists who denounce the scandalous things of America." And, for me, Pino was this: first, a journalist, a good second Sardinian shocked, thirdly a good journalist who reported the shocked scandalous things in Sardinia.
But, go for investigative journalism and DECLARED and the rake (rake ), Pino must have thought, but we guess the manure ( muck)? Analyze carefully the documents of the Palace and the theology of patronage is not poking through the mud: it is creating alternative information. And then, in short, Pino was so elegant, refined, even risked a slight hint of dandyism. Nothing but mud. Even the mayor of Sassari, in his commemoration, remembers him thus: "Those who knew him remember him as a person who can not elegant in dress, in Grant, and sophisticated in the life and profession, with deep culture and fine and careful pen is always ready to bite and scratch. He was able to put the interviewee asked questions with a bad premise and often disarming politeness: if you like you can not answer this question .... "
Sure, you could say that the veneer of sophistication and caged nature maddalenina canaille , fierce and rude. A mix of tones from a picaresque novel, which American literature. Moreover, suppose that Pino, of American journalism, so far, mattered little. In the sense that he felt closer to the old formulas (in cloth) and the Espresso World, with a bit of ABC's Bianciardi. However, if your we refer to a European tradition, I say Sassari Sera had much in common with the style of satirical Canard Enchainé Hebdomadaire. As can be seen from the piece that reproduce here: appeared in a book published several years ago, is signed by another person, but it was written by Pino (which has, as do other good journalists, even a moderate activity Advice and ghostwriting). In short, it is seen from Sassari Sera Pino.

TALKING SASSARI sera.
[...] Sassari Sera born as a reaction to the monopoly of information in Sardinia. It is proposed to the readers as regular (fortnightly): almost a reasoned summary news edited by the two Island newspapers. This characteristic - information calculated based on the misinformation of the existing newspapers - it makes a trade journal about what happens in the Palace. Historically and journalistic exploits the time when some politicians Sardinian become the protagonists of national life. Ideologically (not only but also in the style) has as its reference point the organs of the radical left ( World , Espresso ) suffers, retransmit, tensions on the big issues of the moralization of public life.
In Sardinia is finding fertile ground in the conduct of the political class and the use of decision (Region, municipalities, counties, public agencies) conduct characterized by arbitrariness and abuse of power. The allegation of serious facts, hidden by the silence of the daily press, break a habit of silence and complicity. Hundreds of readers, dozens of marginalized intellectuals, politicians aside from the generational change of parties, see this paper as an opportunity for revenge and restoration of the moral relationship that happened, truth told.
language and titles are marked irreverence toward the powers that be, the breach to the rituals of power. The political fact is seen only from the standpoint of morality. The motor of history is not the policy in an abstract sense, but men who have the political and daily life in their physicality, their habits and acquaintances, in their banality in their electoral and cultural ambitions. Is involved in this mockery of journalism and demystification (Sassari Sera makes extensive use of caricature drawing as a political satire), a world of characters and values \u200b\u200bprematurely consigned to history and respectability.
The reaction is more violent by the newspapers that stigmatize Sassari Sera of whatever is causing scandal. Ineffectiveness of this rating follows a number calculated, almost scientific, of libel suits that are fixed on time in as many court victories. The daily press is reprimanded by his readers "to have concealed facts and events that actually happened, the seriousness of which was reflected in courtrooms that have fulfilled the mandate journalist who dared to tell."
the complaints of the centers of power against Sassari Sera end up doing as a sounding board at public opinion, which does not buy the newspaper, while expanding interest and circulation. The legal proceedings against the magazine eventually accredited layers lazy circle of public opinion and opinion leaders delegated by the dominant political regime to conceal the misdeeds of respectability in pictures. The next strategy is to silence, non-citation of the blackout. The "rag" march for at least twenty-five of his forty years as a clandestine leaflet, which can be bought on the sly and you pull out in public at the time of reckoning between factions. "They gave you a thief and you have not even sued." "These things were written Sassari Sera ten years ago and no one spoke." Despite the conspiracy of silence, the complaints of Sassari Sera resulting investigations and judicial cases against public figures that come from the political scene.
Around '75, the climate of permanent national scandal in which he lives the whole country, thanks to a kind of counter-in (version provincial) Sassari Sera is among the forerunners, the magazine Sassari (which is the most widely read newspaper extensively in Sardinia), unable to offer any emotion into news, points to a specialization, choosing between the player assigned to the building [...] .

Record non olet? Yes, no, maybe. years ago (it was 2000 if I remember correctly), a friend pointed out a strange occurrence: the daily Sassari New had published a piece on Careddu Pino, on the occasion of the fortieth anniversary of his historical publication. What was strange? There was strange that among some journalists there was bad blood, either because Pino had a habit of stepping on - usually with good reason - even on some of my colleagues, or because the daily Sassari Caracciolo past the group, and then to L'Espresso group, had a fart in the nose (but had not, evidently, when he sat on its board of directors Flavio carbons) and considered Sassari If ra a newspaper tabloid. " So that output caught us all by surprise, but as far as I'm concerned, until a point: the interview was a chronicler of race, Pironti Fiorentino, who was then deputy director of the New , then director of Gazzetta di Reggio , and eventually director of ' Agl , the agency providing the information to national newspapers Finegil, a company local newspapers L'Espresso. In short, a highly respected journalist. The interview I liked, but with some reservations, I wish to discuss briefly. Not for any fault of the interviewer (God forbid: Pironti is an excellent journalist, and then, in short, my first and only front-page piece was he who published, his goodness, when he was head of the Provinces in New ...). But because some passages of the interview should be explained better. So carry that interview (titled "40 years as a journalist against") and then do some reflection.

40 ANNI DA GIORNALISTA CONTRO.
Quante querele per diffamazione ti sei beccato in 40 anni?
Oltre duecento, e devo dire che ho un bilancio positivo di assoluzioni.
E quante per violenza?
Già, qualche volta sono volati anche schiaffi. Ma per me lo schiaffo non è violenza fine a se stessa, è soltanto una misura pedagogica.
Mi racconti la tua carriera di giornalista?
Comincio alla Nuova, come vice corrispondente dalla Maddalena. Prendo il diploma magistrale nell'isola e mi iscrivo all'università a Sassari. Studio e collaboro alla terza pagina New Giagu then entrusted to Angelo. I propose to teach in a school dell'Etfas, then Nino Giagu convince me to move the island to the Courier, the second day of Sassari, more or less official organ of the DC.
It is said that you chose a strange way to resign ...
Yeah, I let go of someone and two slaps on. We
the birth of Sassari Sera.
The story is this. We are in 1960. Banco di Sardegna is growing exponentially (because houses in its coffers to 400 billion in the first floor of rebirth) and decided to land on the peninsula, namely in Genoa. One of the first customers of the new branch is the Dolphin, an importer of cocoa, getting a credit limit of $ 500 million. The next crack of the entrepreneur is devastating: Dauphin fled to South America, the Bank is in trouble. The news was kept secret, but the case exploded when Delfino returned to Italy and was arrested. We find ourselves in three (Anthony Simon Mossa, Roberto Stefanelli and I) to fight to release this news. Nothing to do.
So you decide to make a newspaper.
The first issue of Sassari Sera is a bomb. The news of the scam of cocoa makes a tour of Italy, laying bare the power structure of the DC Sassari, which has its economic boom in the Banco di Sardegna.
One scoop on how many copies? Mille
the first half hour, and then followed by the others edizioni.
E poi?
Nell'ordine: veniamo denunciati per stampa clandestina in quanto nella fretta ci siamo dimenticati di registrare la testata in tribunale; la tipografia Gallizzi si rifiuta di stampare il secondo numero; i servizi segreti fanno irruzione in redazione alla ricerca di un documento che dimostri la nostra connivenza con Bourghiba. Insomma, ci rendiamo conto di averla combinata grossa.
Un disastro.
Aspetta, non è finita. Io nel frattempo avevo vinto il concorso per un posto da funzionario del Provveditorato agli studi: nel giro di un paio di giorni vengo trasferito a Viterbo per qualcosa che somiglia all'incompatibilità ambientale.
Insomma, sei nel classico mare di trouble. So share ...
Manco way! Does not start, giving up everything. Do you think I never got cleared.
Okay, remains in Sassari and continue your battle. Sassari (but perhaps I should say Sardinia) that is completely in the hands of Turkish It should ni.
is the time when the political class Sardinian growing wave of agrarian reform desired by Antonio Segni. Etfas is founded, that the malicious call Agency Scam, founded by Antonio Segni, who takes 6:00 to 7:00 and costs a hundred thousand employees of billions of time. It salaried officials to make policy, it creates a ruling class that should make Sardinia a second California.
Tu fai parte dell'apparato.
Sono il loro modesto ghost-writer con qualifica di addetto stampa. Li vedo crescere sempre più potenti, sempre più arroganti. Diventeranno i bersagli delle mie denunce su Sassari Sera.
E come reagiscono?
Normalmente querelano. Memorabile quella di Francesco Deriu, allora assessore regionale, che, in piena campagna elettorale, spedì 100 mila santini con i francobolli comprati dalla Regione. Lo scrissi, e lui mi portò in tribunale.
E Cossiga?
Nel pieno di non ricordo più quale campagna di stampa, ci incontrammo in piazza d'Italia. Pino - mi disse - ti invito alla moderazione. Come sai Sassari è una città molto cattiva.
so do land reform?
Apart from the cheating and the mysteries, for three main reasons: lack of water, based on advanced technology stock American production on the Soviet economic model. But in the meantime pursues
chemistry.
and translates the historic compromise in Sardinia. The DC called Rovelli to perpetuate his power with money from the chemical, the Communist Party sees the farmer or shepherd who becomes a potential worker in writing to the CGIL. Rovelli is a huge industry, has cutting-edge technologies (see the first desalination plants) and the game is ready to bankroll a political class in turn and obtain funding.
and compromise history?
Continue. Just see how the Democrats had pounced on the ruins of the DC.
For example?
Banco di Sardegna. Lorenzo Idda, dell'Etfas young student at the time of President Pampaloni, becoming president of the Bank because a friend of Cossiga. This friendship will be his fortune and his grave as soon as the former Communist Party decided to hit Frank, are blown up his friend. This is the truth. Why do you hate
Cossiga?
But do not hate him, and he knows it too. I think above all, a product of political anthropology. Mistaken for over-esteem, I must say that so far he has gone well. You know what I think? If they had said that politics is a job would stop immediately. We have seen recently, and I must confess that I was pretty embarrassed. Well, came to me with open arms, he was affectionate, leaving many of his retinue of stone. More hate!
And Lorenzo Idda?
We have been friends for 30 years, then purported to revoke my right to write about him. Point.
Now I lie in area sardista ...
be because I'm a good friend of James Sanna. But I was and am a layman, a libertarian socialist culture.
no coincidence you are also a Mason.
Ever since I was 22. Then the writing was on the way I used Sassari Sera, where now sell the stone marten, and every morning at 6 I passed the shop of Bruno Mura. I stopped to chat, we talked mostly of Garibaldi, and that great man discovered in me all the features of the Mason. I stayed up Freemasonry in the late '70s.
Again came out to the sound of slaps?
No, not this time. I discovered that a prominent DC Freemasonry had also entered the card of the MSI. A fascist in our midst, at that time persecuted by Mussolini, was intolerable. I prepared a table for the prosecution but was outvoted. I left.
And then? You're not a Mason?
I will always be a Mason, though they now are "sleeping", ie not pay the fees and do not go to the lodge. But the spirit of tolerance and solidarity will animate my life forever.
You know someone down a blackmailer?
I know, I figured if I do not know, but I find it almost physiological. I told you before that I have collected more than 200 libel suits, some for the usual slapping, but no one has ever sued for extortion. And then, you know what you say if I was a racketeer, I would be rich or die like sheep. And I'm poor and live.
And the legend of Sassari Sera living on blackmail?
is a manipulation of the left came to power and can not stand that it is treated as that suffered the Democrats. This is il giornale che gestisce le omissioni o le censure dei quotidiani sardi, è il giornale delle lingue tagliate. Se dovessi farti l'elenco dei giornalisti che hanno lavorato per me in incognito…
Non te lo chiedo, so che sei legato a un patto di riservatezza. Però sarebbe interessante un tuo giudizio sui due quotidiani sardi.
L'Unione è un giornale di poteri forti, da "dove il Duce vuole" a "dove Zuncheddu vuole" passando attraverso Grauso. Ha un prestigio legato soprattutto alla tiratura. Trovo che abbia confuso le idee a chi amava Liori. Con la Nuova ho un rapporto di amore-odio. Assolve a tutta una serie di funzioni, ma non mi sembra abbia un'anima. O almeno un'anima sarda.
Chi è il più Sardinia good journalist?
Manlio Brigaglia, by far. I do not go well, because it forces me to exclude those present. Just
shop. And if you talk about tourism?
is the third phase of the dc power. The land reform is done with Cossiga Signs-driving, as the protagonist Soddu petrochemicals, tourism is developed under the domination of Giagu that controls (over the region) the mayors of Gallura. The boom of the Emerald Coast goes hand in hand with the collapse of the petrochemical industry and reshape the codes of politics. In 1969 Andrea Ray (PCI), Armando Pumpkin (PSIUP) and Armando Corona (Pri) meet the Aga Khan explains his plan to one million and certainties, however, urged the region. Please that he took money in Italy when all Italian manufacturers are fleeing abroad deemed to Porto Cervo was built largely on cooperative red Alisarda that the seat was left in Olbia against all economic logic.
And why not take off the Master Plan? Why
Soddu, cut off from Giagu, marries the environmental battle.
It seems a little 'simplistic.
course, but this is the first obstacle. The crucial fact is during the Jubilee of the Ismailis, the Aga Khan when asked deoccidentalizzare of its activities. Then began the hallway, concluded in recent days with the sale Meridiana.
You've been ghost-writer is also the Costa Smeralda.
and I are great friends with Paul Riccardi, licensed (use the quotation marks) for having inadvertently revealed the trick (also quotes) in the aircraft leasing Alisarda.
About Friends: Armando Corona and Pugliese.
Corona is a great doctor, with a common human warmth and a truly extraordinary. I met him during the libel trial that I filed Berretta (the famous notable dc, master of the palace of the mad Solanas) and came to take their solidarity as a Regional Councillor for Health. A great man, who now weighs being the head of Italian Freemasonry. Pugliese knew him in occasione di quell'irruzione dei servizi segreti di cui ho parlato prima. Diventammo amici, lo difesi sul giornale quando lo arrestarono per un reato che non esiste: intermediazione nel traffico di armi.
Sassari Sera ha compiuto 40 anni. Un bilancio del giornale e tuo?
Quello del giornale lo lascio ai lettori. Io mi sento come uno che ha vissuto questa professione in assenza di colpa.
Andrai a vivere da pensionato alla Maddalena?
Intanto non andrò in pensione, e poi non tornerei mai nell'isola. Per i miei compagni d'infanzia sono un rinnegato che è scappato. Ci tornerò, ma per ambientarci un romanzo.
Un giallo, come quelli che scrivi tu per raccontare i misteri a base of clandestine meetings in Portugal, political conspiracies and anxiolytics?
Yes, something like that. Or maybe not. Who knows.

(Source: "La Nuova Sardegna")

interview there are some points that should be clarified. Forget the story of "blackmail" because it offends Pino, the many contributors and readers of his newspaper. He was an imbecile, which Pino explained the source.
Worth, however, any reflection on the passage where mention is made of pine with two friends: the former head of Italian Freemasonry and the former colonel of the secret services. Pino says: Corona may have been the head of Freemasonry but does that mean? It was a "great doctor" (and we all know what Pino would need a good doctor as a friend) and a Republican, a leading secular figure of regional policy, former Councillor and Chairman of the Regional Council. So what's the problem, "says Pino. It is so outrageous that among the many friends of a journalist there is the former head of Freemasonry? I find it more shocking to see Opus Dei, by former Senator Binetti, PD in the former communist Veltroni.
As regards the former colonel in the intelligence community, even here Pino points out: when a friendship born out Sassari Sera to disseminate news silenced by other newspapers, cioè lo scandalo del Banco di Sardegna. Pino, negli anni Ottanta, prese le difese del suo amico ex colonnello coinvolto nella nota inchiesta del giudice Palermo. Ora, se devo essere sincero, quella “difesa” non mi è mai piaciuta; anzi, lì ho cominciato a disamorarmi un po' di Pino e del suo giornale (Pino aveva i suoi codici, io avevo e ho i mei). Perché, va bene che i protagonisti della vicenda vennero assolti, ma la contrastata e inconcludente inchiesta del giudice ebbe almeno il merito delle rivelazioni su un intreccio di affari raccapriccianti. Con la difesa, legittima, di un suo amico, Pino rischiava di difendere, diciamo di sponda, anche altri personaggi tutt’altro che limpidi. E, comunque, quelle storie return in his first book, although fictional reinterpretation. I've re-read quickly, and it seems that Pino did not discount the other characters: in short, I think he made it clear enough.
that Pino was a journalist and documents, especially when Sassari Sera did investigative journalism, we all knew. That sometimes the big shoot, we all knew this too, but those excesses were pardoned not say, but justified because they were in the satire, the pieces of costume, in the sneer, nell'irriverenza, all features known and accepted by the readers of Sassari Evening: with so little that director came to put some traditional female buttocks instead of the faces of local politicians could expect anything. For men de panza, for the Christian Democrats and the PCI, Sassari Sera was a rag that slandered the institutions, for us readers, was the only hope of a counter-editorial landscape, such as Sardinia, bowed to the powerful or colonizer of the day.
And speaking of counter: when the reader reads of investigative journalism, the real and increasingly rare, seldom wonder how the journalist has received the news. If the reporter is credible, if the facts are documented, if the investigation as the first result of the discovery of an important truth, the reader does not care if the che legge è il risultato di una guerra tra fazioni o poteri antagonisti, non gli importa dei contatti, delle frequentazioni, delle amicizie che hanno portato il giornalista a svolgere sino in fondo il suo lavoro. Gli interessa la notizia. In questo senso, non so se ingenuamente o meno, per molto tempo non mi sono mai permesso di giudicare le amicizie o le frequentazioni di Pino, pensando che un giornalista “scomodo” debba coltivare, necessariamente, amicizie altrettanto “scomode”. Quando l’ho conosciuto, avevo la percezione di un suo codice d’onore che mi metteva al riparo da molti dubbi. Pino non era in vendita, aveva portato avanti delle battaglie importanti, e questo mi bastava.
Intorno al ‘68, Gian Giacomo Feltrinelli had been in Sardinia: Mesina wanted to meet. The secret services were on alert. As he told the same Mesina, who was then a fugitive sought: "In early '68 Col. Massimo Pugliese of Sifar, he asked to meet me: it appeared that the weapons were to be landed in Sardinia to encourage separatism". Mesina said he had never met Feltrinelli, but admitted that he met the Colonel, who was then in charge of counterintelligence center of Cagliari. The meeting actually takes place. As far as I know, the colonel was accompanied by two journalists. In one, I can say that it was a print journalist, is now old and is considered the dean of the reporters Sardinians and the other was Pino. Why Pino was a fighter that was put into play, was present in the wild Supramonte in newsrooms as the Region and city councils, was in the news, both in the early years of Sassari Sera, when dealing with news, both in the years when the newspaper began to devote himself to counter the things of the palace. When Pino was put into play, right or wrong in his battles, he did so without hesitation. Pino was not rich, and, by choice consistent with its woody nature, immune to any kind of caste, including journalists, did not enjoy any retirement. I believe that in recent years, had remained only the house where he lived. A few years ago I spoke with a mutual friend who told me about his fury against the new regional power: "If this continues, the risk of losing the house." But who could stop quell'uragano Pino?
Today when I read a good investigation, one of those investigations that remove the patina Velinario information, I think of Pine as a reader and I feel a little 'guilty. For the action of the player is a no-action: sit down, open the newspaper and read it. The journalist, however, is dynamic action and awkward: he is exposed, which is at stake, and that at the end of the ride, is to remain standing, always I've coached a sense of balance.
The rest, history of the newspaper "scandal," the fart at the nose, so stupid to ignore the role played in nearly five decades by Sera Sassari, saws are only returnable bottles. That long story ends here, with the death of its founder and "uncomfortable" director. I lose an important reference of my youth. Readers Sardinian lose that, some years ago, a journalist, ANSA - that a reporter, not one of the hundred thousand commentators and fake and sent water down spoiled special Italian papers - so called "Pino Careddu with his Sassari Sera still unable to shake the buildings della politica e dei potentati economici con le sue indiscrezioni e ricostruzioni dei retroscena di tante piccole e grandi vicende, gettando un sasso nelle acque stagnanti dell’informazione tradizionale”. Queste tre semplici righe di cronaca, scritte da un suo collega di Cagliari, mi sembrano il più limpido riconoscimento del lavoro di Pino, il modo più corretto per ricordare un grande giornalista-agitatore e scrittore: caro Pino, non puoi immaginare quanto ci manchino le tue acque agitate.

G. G.