Natacha Giordano

Some essential clues to portray his self
I am a french woman, born in Corsica, little island of sharp moutains, and scorching violence.
I've always had a real addiction for litterature : a compulsive reader, since I was able to decipher letters ; a publisher for 8 years, and anthologist of some books. Above all, I need to see the roots of literary things, and so write articles about the fields I love. I'm also a literary agent, among other things.
Is it enough to delimit a self ? Don't think so.
So let's tell I am a sort of agnostic, convinced that the final meaning of life is far beyond human's ability to understand it. Convinced that humanity is trapped (and killed, in some metaphorical way) by empiricism. And convinced, consequently, that truth and meaning are the only valuable aims that human beings must try to reach, relentlessly, and hopelessly.
Otherwise, we just exist as mouths to fill, hands to grab and sexs to fuck. Whow. So exciting.
So I take a deep interest in all forms taken by the human search for what can be called illumination : philosophy, religions, occultism, spirituality, symbolism, whatever. For the concrete manifestation of growth (or regress) in sociology, politics, communication, and so on. And, above all, for the ones who carry into the world seeds of growth, quest and transformation, and so for litterature, art, and the creators beyond.
For years, living in a little town, I've only found all of this in books, and spirit of dead people. Internet ? A rumor far away. People around me ? Mainly liars, deceivers, cowards, narrow-minded beings lost in the so important cares of social integration. I was for them the "too-much" girl. Too passionate-fervent-seeker-violent-immoderate-whatever.
At the age of 14 I deeply feeled this state of mind depicted by Patch Adams / Robin Williams :
All of life is a coming home.
Salesmen, secretaries, coal miners, beekeepers, sword swallowers--
all of us.
All the restless hearts of the world...
all trying to find a way home.
It's hard to describe what I felt like then.
Picture yourself walking for days in a driving snow.
You don't even know you're walking in circles--
the heaviness of your legs in the drifts;
your shouts disappearing into the wind.
How small you can feel.
How far away home can be.
Home.
The dictionary defines it as both a place of origin...
and a goal or destination.
And the storm?
The storm was all in my mind.
Or, as the poet Dante put it...
"ln the middle of the journey of my life I found myself in a dark wood...
for I had lost the right path."
Eventually I would find the right path...
Then in 1996, I finally found this right path. Crossing the road of Lea Silhol, by accident. It was about time, cause nobody can hold the storms alone forever.
Lea Silhol was the "too-much" woman for the world. Too idealist and cynic, intense and uncorrupted, true as structural steel. She sees the patterns of the world, and all his rhythms, and sounds, and cries, are banging in her head. And, my oh my, she is a writer. Some alchemist-creator of the logos. She shows me the right path, on the way she is.
And then, since ten years, I get through to make something really valuable of my life, and of myself. Believing that finally, it's possible to see the glitter before the final countdown of death, in other human beings. The essential lesson I was hungered after.
I'm now always the same seeker, but the burning skies gave me a sister, and I can carry on this road, with the Alice Bailey's Taurus devise : "The battle have to be continued, without fear."
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Websites :
* Tisseuse.org : Site du fan-club de l'oeuvre de Léa Silhol
* Fragmentale.net : Littérature, société et autres désordres (en construction... d'ici 2012 maybe)
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