(… ) This is how my interest was sparked. By now it wouldn’t matter if the real story turned out to be a hoax or a concise London-like stylistic feature, the question that came to mind was “what are harmless goldfish doing in one of the most violent and harsh thriller mysteries of the 20th century?” “wouldn’t this type of tittle attract the attention of the public, by contrast, if it was found amongst books on a shelf that was reserved for thriller mysteries, while it should be, however, except for a salesman’s error, amongst manuals on spearfishing or fishing industry treaties?” Surely more than a thriller title amongst thriller books”
As my editor always says, “if you really want to hide something you have to expose it together with many others of the same kind“. But this is intuition, the highest form of reason, in the words of Spinoza, beyond that one can not go, you can only turn back, “À rebours”, (upstream), pleasing Huysmans, “Walking in regress”, according to Carmelo Bene. Entertainment and nothing more, is what I think. In an era where everyone goes wild in order to be the most modern, no one competes to be the most out-dated, but, always and anyway, there is always a request for the antiques that we may find in an open market; we have already understood, without any force. This is why Goldfish was written. Regardless of whether one knows it or not, with the techniques of the thirties, thought with the mirroring of 2000, and then edited in a “retro” package similar, in touch and smell, to those who want to relate to those years, earning a place beyond the useful world, of the interested and not the interesting, of the obvious.
If you appreciate my Goldfish do not applaud the obvious, but its opposite, by exploring the “missing possible” that for the old liberal philosopher Karl Popper (its encoder) was the rain before the puddle, for us it is the crime before having carried out the fact … even only by the looking at the title, from a paragraph stolen from the indolent salesman in a bookshop, the survey started, a specific interest, the synopsis is taken, the irreversible “walking in regress”.
From the chaotic tables of a flea market, from the dusty shelves of a library, with all of the splendid, essential uselessness of which only the narrative of escape may benefit, not assimilating to the fashions of the times and therefore also their mortality, categorically defining itself with the statement left by the more “cursed” of writers, Oscar Wilde: “All art is quite useless” I hope that these lines that I have just written are as equally useless, otherwise, instead of “discouraging” young writers and cartoonists full of grass, I nurtured a rich breeding ground for petty criminals in the grass and, as we know, petty criminals sometimes grow up.