There is something terribly poignant about Gianni Celati’s death last night in Brighton, England. Because now that his life circle has closed, at the age of 84, the impression is that imagination and reality, writing and life, have overlapped each other in a mutual and continuous transfer. Baudelaire spoke of matches, alluding to that mysterious network of concordances, analogies, coincidences that secretly run through the stories of each one: an intuition that seems to fit perfectly into the existence of Celati.
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