The Suicide of an Assassin

By Roberto Rizzo

The suicide of an assassin. In a sequence of analytical in-depth studies, the mysteries of the Cosmos, entwined in a union of science and philosophy, knowledge and research and the evolution of all that pervades and surrounds us unravel and concatenate in a magnificent way in a universal vision of life through a basic analysis: Time-Space-Universe-the Whole. An articulated and in-depth presentation accompanies us in an analytical voyage with extreme lucidity and conciseness marrying science and philosophy, amply clarifying many of questions that to date have been merely touched upon. A vision of the Universe that is completely free of any kind of conditioning based upon logic and the evidence that, in examining many of the unknowns that torment us, helps to expose ever larger openings in the curtains of mysteries that we still have not managed to dispel. The Universe was born or is it simply a part of a sort of transformation? What is the difference between Nothingness and the Whole? What are Black Holes and what is their purpose? What is beyond the Universe? Can we be sure that Time exists? What do we mean by Infinity? Why does the Universe kill itself while it expands in order to survive and gives rise to an infinity of new universes? These are just a few of the topics explored in this thoroughly constructed metaphysical exploration and which is, above all, without any cultural, philosophical or religious preconception. In ultimate analysis, the intent of this work is to make the one incontrovertible universal truth emerge in the wake of logic: the infinity of the infinite in a kaleidoscopic chasing after itself of a Universe that, in being the Whole and a part of the Whole, kills to survive, and in doing so kills itself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roberto Rizzo
• Release date: May 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463255070

Roberto Rizzo

I do not think of myself as being a homebody type of person. Perhaps this is because I took my first flight before I was nine months old.From Africa to Europe, from Libya to Italy, at the yoke of the plane was my father. However, my never revealed desire to travel exploded at the age of eighteen when, without any money, I decided to wander across Europe.However, I wandered for more than two years travelling throughout Europe with a friend of mine, hitchhiking and working in different places to scrape together the little money I needed to survive.It was in Copenhagen that we found ourselves in serious difficulty, because we lost our job and, with a just few cents in our pocket, we were certain to be in a position of constraint. The humiliation of the travel warrant was in our hands but we had to think up a solution that could delay, at least temporarily, an inevitable surrender. Then a sudden brainwave gave me the solution. I could draw, we still had a few cents to buy a box of colored chalks and being in a situation which did not allow hesitation but which fostered enterprising action, I had an inspirational idea: we would work as pavement artists! From that moment everything changed. No more empty stomach, fears or hardships, but beautiful women, smart restaurants and nightclubs. Qualified begging but, above all, well-paid, during the day. It was during that long period of “dolce vita” that I met a Danish girl; I married her and took her to Italy, where I started a business. In the meantime I kept on writing and composing my first songs and I had the chance to share some musical experience with Fabrizio de Andrè. I took part in many literary and poetry competitions and got gratifying results. Then I began to collaborate with “Panorama”, a Yugoslav magazine written in Italian.Some of my poems were published in the prestigious journal “Fenarete” and in other qualified periodicals. Then I met Eugenio Montale who, at that time, had not yet won the Nobel Prize. Luckily he liked me and understood me and I grew fond of him. In that period he lived in Milan at 11 Via Bigli and I used to visit him every Monday when I went to Milan for my job. Even if at first I had gone to him to ask his opinion, for a long time, a kind of fear kept me from showing any of my poems to him and submitting them to his judgment. But the day came when he asked me why I had not brought him one of my works yet, and he finished with a sentence I will never forget: “I have not yet figured out if you’re one of the most honest and fair man I have ever known or just a very smart guy.”It was just this kind of straightforwardness which made me understand I was with the wittiest man I had ever happened to meet. Not only, my opinion never changed and was strengthened over time.The following Monday I took him almost everything I had written until then.For two weeks he told me nothing. During our conversations I was pleased with his encyclopaedic knowledge and with his intelligence. He was conversant or knowledgeable in so many things ranging from philosophy to politics, from art to science, from psychology to religion, and, of course, from literature to poetry. From our conversations I realised that I shared almost the same point of views with the person I had learnt to consider as being my teacher. The following week, for the second time, he approached the subject: “Don’t you want to know what my opinion of your work is?”I felt like I was going to sink: “Sure! Of course!” I said eagerly.“So why didn’t you ask me?”“Because I’m afraid of your judgment. Moreover, simply because you haven’t spoken to me before now has convinced me that your opinion is that my work is useless. ““I want to give you some advice. Don’t enter any more competitions. “I felt like I was going to die. My doubts were changed into certainties. What I wrote was worthless or at least of very little value, and therefore, implicitly, his advice was to consider myself a writer no more.“Got it”. - I said, mortified. - “I’ll stop writing.”“You have understood nothing.”He replied and, smiling, he added a sentence that satisfied me beyond all expectations. I will keep it forever in my heart, but my discretion has always prevented me from reporting it to someone else. However, encouraged by his exhortations then and his memory after his death, I have tried never to abandon my passion for Literature, Poetry, Philosophical Theory, Music and similar works.In the mid-eighties I was elected President of a cultural association in my town. I accepted the post with enthusiasm because the organisation promoted new talents by publishing their literary works and offering them the chance to express their opinions through the medium of its magazine. It was a commitment which I could carry on for only a few years but which I give credit to for having made me find at least a few minutes to write every day.I have always supported the idea that a life with no novelties is not worth living and maybe just because of this from time to time I have tried to create or take advantage of new situations. The last chance I had was when, going to the Russian consulate to get some information, I asked a young Russian tourist for some help. I soon found out that this same person was fond of literature. What could I do but marry her?However, today, thanks to a chain of events, not least as a result my marriage, I am at last able to put Montale’s urgings into practice and I am able to write full time. Furthermore, I am sure that it is consequential that I often have the sensation that he himself is pleased because I’ve continued to follow his advice.And now, roving the intricacies of my mind, I get inebriated by space, formulating theories that recklessly try to stretch out their hands to embrace those who desire to think, to know, to understand. Just as I try to do too.

Book preview

The suicide of an assassin

Secrets of the Universe

It is possible that, by expanding, the Universe ends up committing suicide

and this may give rise to countless new universes.

Roberto Rizzo

Published on Smashwords by Roberto Rizzo

Copyright © 2020 - Roberto Rizzo

Toc

Title page

License Notes

Roberto Rizzo

Cover

The suicide of an assassin

CHAPTER I – PRELUD

CHAPTER II - A MASS IN MOVEMENT

CHAPTER III – INEXISTENCE

CHAPTER IV - UNIVERSAL STRUCTURES

CHAPTER V - DEATH AND SYNAPSES

CHAPTER VI – REBIRTH

CHAPTER VII – EVERYTHING

CHAPTER VIII – MULTIVERSE

CHAPTER IX – MULTIVERSE

CHAPTER X - TIME AND SPACE

CHAPTER XI - THE ILLUSION OF LIVING

CHAPTER XII - NOTHINGNESS AND EVERYTHING

CHAPTER XIII - THE INFINITY OF THE INFINITE

CHAPTER XIV - DARK MATTER

CHAPTER XV - CONCATENATED BIRTHS AND DEATHS

CHAPTER XVI – SUFFERING

CHAPTER XVII - PERCEPTIONS

CONCLUSION

More ebooks of Roberto Rizzo

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Roberto Rizzo

I do not think being a homebody type of person. Perhaps this is because I took my first flight when I was before nine months.

From Africa to Europe, from Libya to Italy. At the yoke of the plane was my father, a Tripoli air force pilot who, at the beginning of the war, was moved to Novi Ligure airport where I am still living and where I have been writing since the age of fifteen. But my always hidden desire to travel burst forth at the age of eighteen when, without any money, I decided to wander across Europe. Other times, a different Europe, other borders. Real borders and in some cases almost impassable. However, I wandered for more than two years traveling throughout Europe with a friend of mine, hitchhiking and working in different places to scrape together the few money needed to survive.

It was in Copenhagen that we were in serious difficulty, because we lost our job and, with a few cents in our pocket, we were certain to be in a position of constraint.The humiliation of the travel warrant was in our hands but we had to think up a solution that could delay, at least temporarily, an inevitable surrender, when a sudden inspiration, gave me the solution. I could draw, we still had a few cents to buy a colored chalk box and being in perfect physical condition to overcome any hesitation, I had the winning idea: we would work as pavement artists! From that moment everything changed. No more empty stomach, fears and hardships, but beautiful women, smart restaurants and nightclubs at night. Qualified begging but, above all, well-paid, during the day. It was during that long period of dolce vita that I knew a Danish girl, I married her and took her to Italy, where I started a business. In the meantime I kept on writing and composing my first songs andI had the chance to share some musical experience with Fabrizio de Andrè. I attended many literary and poetry competitions where I got gratifying results, and began to cooperate with Panorama, a Yugoslav magazine written in Italian.

Some of my poems were published in the prestigious journal Fenarete and in other qualified periodicals, until it happened to me to know Eugenio Montale who, at that time, was not the Nobel Prize yet and who, luckily, expressed me sympathy and which I grew fond of him a lot to. In that period he was living in Milan at 11 Via Bigli and I was accustomed to visit him every Monday when I went to Milan because of my job. Even if at first I had gone there because of it, for a long time a kind of fear kept me from submitting to his judgment even one of my poems. But the day came when he asked me why I had not brought him one of my writings yet, so that he finished with a sentence I will never forget: I have not yet figured out if you're one of the most honest and fair man I have ever known or just a very smart guy. "

It was just this honesty to give me a confirmation of being faced to the wittiest man I had ever happened to meet. Not only that conviction kept unchanged but was strengthened in time.

The following Monday I took him almost everything I had written until then.

For two weeks he told me nothing. During our conversations I was pleased with his encyclopaedic knowledge and with his intelligence ranging from philosophy to politics, from art to science, from psychology to religion, and, of course, from literature to poetry. From our conversations I drew confirmation to have almost the same point of views with the one I considered my only teacher. The following week, for the second time, he was approaching the subject: Don’t you want to know what my opinion on your writings is?

I felt like I was going to sink: Sure! Of course! I said eagerly.

So why didn’t not you ask me?

Because I fear your judgment. Moreover just because you haven’t spoken to me before about it, convinced me that your opinion was negative.

I want to give you an advice. Enter the competitions no more.

I felt like I was going to die. My doubts were changed into certainties.What I wrote was worthless or at least was of very little value, and therefore, implicitly, his advice was to consider myself a writer no more.

Got it. - I said, mortified. - I'll stop writing."

You have understood nothing.

He replied and, smiling, he added a sentence that, satisfying me beyond all expectations, I will keep for ever in my heart, but my discretion always prevented me from reporting it to someone. However, encouraged by his exhortations, even after his death, I tried never to leave my passion for Literature, Poetry, Theory, Philosophy, Music and Related Texts.

In the mid-eighties, somebody thought of electing me as President of a cultural association in my town. I complied with enthusiasm because it was intended to promote new talents by publishing their literary works and offering them the chance to express opinions through the magazine of the association. It is a commitment I could carry on for few years only but whom I give credit to for having given me the opportunity to carve out a short time to write everyday.

I have always supported the idea that a life with no news is not worth living and maybe just because of it I have occasionally tried to breathe new life. The last chance I had was when, going to the Russian consulate to get some details, I asked about a young Russian tourist who, by chance, as I could verify very soon, was fond of literature. What could I do but marry her?

However, today, thanks to a chain of events, not least as a result my marriage, at last I was able to put into practice the exhortation of Montale by being able to write at full time and I am sure that it is consequential that often happens to me to feel the sensation that he himself could be pleased because I've heard him.

And now, traveling into my mind, I get high on space, formulating theories that recklessly try to stretch out their hands to embrace those who desire to think, to know, to understand. As I try to do so..

Contact:

[e-mail]

Follow on

Facebook

Twitter

Blog

About Me

The suicide of an assassin

CHAPTER 1

PRELUD

A moment before properly waking, whilst the warmth of my bed still envelops me, I can feel my cells without identity, in a space without time, which all rotate, attract each other, recognise each other and create their networks. They seek a sense, a collocation in which they will find a rational order and awareness and in a flash they review my past to seek the present.

For this incredibly brief timespan it is as if my atoms, seeking an eternal perfect harmony, blend and become one with the Universe. And it is when, unexpectedly, I return to my body and my eyelids open with immense effort that I find myself once more a part of the anguishing human reality, once more in possession of a past and a present, a limited enclosure of space and time, concentrated in the pain of an apparent existence, accompanied by a sort of melancholy for the harmony and the infinite which infiltrate every part of my being inside me at every waking. These are the perceptions which, as time has passed, have given me the certainty that all that surrounds us is only the immense difference of dimensions.

How many times, fragile and vulnerable, unaware of the realities which view us as universes among universes, we have paused rapt and thrilled as we survey the majesty of a starry sky above us.

Overhead the night envelops us with its mantle picked out with so many twinkling little lights which we have considered to have rich arcane meanings. Constellations to which we have given astrological powers as our inspirations suggested but which, at the same time, have represented the embryo of our awareness of a universal belonging. To feel that we are embraced by the protective vault of Creation, which in its immensity might influence our destinies, was reassuring.

For thousands of years, the skies have been identified as the Kingdom of God, the paradise where only those human beings who were able to cleanse themselves of their sins might hope to be welcomed.

For countless generations this conviction has been a consoling illusion to which, however puerile it might seem today, they held fast in order to give their lives a sense and rationalise their end.

Today, although we have acquired a myriad of elements to give an explanation of that which is over us, albeit only partially, and although we know that an above and a below are really only sensations, everything still remains in an area of suppositions.

After all since the dawn of time humanity has used the best of its intellect to discover and interpret the secrets of the Universe and with this purpose in mind tortuous visions and complex theories have been vented, all attempting to explain that which is, and remains, a mystery. In fact, even today we ask whether the Universe is a structure that is still getting organised as it dilates or whether it has reached the apex of its development and is on the point of inverting its motion in a sort of involution.

These are some of the enigmas which we have not yet managed to decipher completely but which are beginning to be unravelled and to which, hidden in scientific theories and unconditioned intuitions, I believe we can already give some rather satisfying answers.

If the truth be told, for many objectives it would have been sufficient to parameterise the infinitely big with the infinitely small and then we would have understood that all that we could not understand was surrounding us and within our bodies.

When considering our structure and the Universe that looms over us, for so long it was thought that there were differences, not only dimensional ones, but unmeasurable ones and, above all, that the only connection was in the composition. In fact, everyone and everything, including the Universe, is a mass of atoms, but we have not yet considered that every single atom is, in turn, a universe and that everything is perpetually in evolution or, if nought else, in a phase of mutation and that every complex is in fact designated to organise itself in an agglomeration with others, as has always happened and as will always happen in the future.

Having made these premises we must admit, for creatures who found it difficult to conceive even the most imperceptible sense of individuality, how hard it must have been to understand that we are made up of billions of little beings. Furthermore it is