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Unknown Binding
First published January 1, 1988
Nothing is known about the mechanism by which the knall kills, or at least nothing about it has been published to date. Knall, in German, means crack, bang, crash; abknallen, in the slang of the Second World War, came to mean “kill with a firearm,” whereas the firing of a knall is typically silent. Maybe the name—unless it has a completely different origin, or is an abbreviation—alludes to the moment of death, which in effect is instantaneous: the person who is struck—even if only superficially, on the hand or on the ear—falls lifeless immediately, and the corpse shows no sign of trauma, except for a small ring-shaped bruise at the point of contact, along the knall’s geometric axis.
Movie-going has decreased significantly, because audience habits have changed: those who go to the movies, alone or in groups, leave at least two seats between them and the other spectators, and, if this isn’t possible, often they prefer to turn in their tickets. The same thing happens on the trams, on the subways, and in the stadiums: people, in short, have developed a “crowd reflex”, similar to that of many animals, who can’t bear the close proximity of others of their kind.
I don’t think you’ll find a baker or an accountant […] you’ll look in vain for a plumber, an electrician, a welder, a mechanic, or a chemist, and I wonder why […] You’ll find a flood of explorers, lovers, cops and robbers, musicians, painters, and poets, countesses, prostitutes, warriors, knights, foundlings, bullies, and crowned heads. Prostitutes above all, in a percentage absolutely disproportionate to the actual need. In short, it’s better not to seek here an image of the world you left.
Here you will not find a sea captain who has not been shipwrecked, a wife who has not been an adulteress, a painter who does not live in poverty for long years and then become famous.

The opinion arrived two months later, and was highly favourable: he, Di Prima, had painted himself from head to foot, and then spent four hours under a ladder, on a Friday, in the company of thirteen black cats, without coming to any harm.
Chiovatero also tried it [and] all the traffic lights he came to were green, he never got a busy signal on the telephone, his girlfriend made up with him, and he ever won a modest prize in the lottery. Naturally it all came to an end after he took a bath.
The expiration date wasn’t always the same: it could be years ahead, or months or days, for no apparent reason, he felt that this was an injustice. Nor did it seem reasonable that there were no rules regarding age: some days he was handed hundreds of cards for newborns. Then, the boss complained if Arrigo kept to generic formulas: the man must be a sadist or a fan of crime news. It wasn’t enough for Arrigo to write “accident.” He wanted all the details and was never satisfied.