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Miller spent much of his time reflecting on his turbulent life with interviewers and close friends. When often questioned about writing he has said, "It's a curse. Yes, it's a flame. It owns you. It has possession over you. You are not the master of yourself. You are consumed by this thing. And the books you write. They're not you. They're not me sitting here, this Henry Miller. They belong to someone else. It's terrible. You can never rest. People used to envy me my inspiration. I hate inspiration. It takes you over completely.

I could never wait until it passed and I got rid of it". Miller's life ended on June 7, in his Pacific Palisades home. He was with his caregiver Bill Pickerill, who had lived with Miller for several years. The clearest end for Miller's own life come from his own words, written in The Smile at the Foot of the Ladder : Perhaps I have not limned his portrait too clearly. But if he exists, if only for the reason that I have imagined him to be. He came from the blue and returns to the blue. He has not perished, he is not lost. Neither will he be forgotten.

To write, I meditated, must be an act devoid of will. The word, like the deep ocean current, has to float to the surface of its own impulse. A child has no need to write, he is innocent. A man writes to throw off the poison which has accumulated because of his false way of life. He is trying to recapture his innocence, yet all he succeeds in doing by writing is to inoculate the world with a virus of his disillusionment. No man would set a word down on paper if he had the courage to live out what he believed in.

His inspiration is deflected at the source. If it is a world of truth, beauty and magic that he desires to create, why does he put millions of words between himself and the reality of that world? Why does he defer action - unless it be that, like other men, what he really desires is power, fame, success.

Yet, having perceived the truth, he deliberately surrendered the angel to the demon which possessed him. A writer woos his public just as ignominiously as a politician or any other mountebank; he loves to finger the great pulse, to prescribe like a physician, to win a place for himself, to be recognized as a force, to receive the full cup of adulation, even if it be deferred a thousand years.

He doesn't want a new world, which might be established immediately, because be knows it would never suit him. He wants an impossible world in which he is the uncrowned puppet-ruler dominated by forces utterly beyond his control. He is content to rule insidiously - in the fictive world of symbols - because the very thought of contact with rude and brutal realities frightens him. True, he has a greater grasp of reality than other men, but he makes no effort to impose that higher reality on the world by force of example.

He is satisfied just to preach, to drag along in the wake of disaster and catastrophes, a death-croaking prophet always without honour, always stoned, always shunned by those who, however unsuited for their talks, are ready and willing to assume responsibility for the affairs of the world.

The truly great writer does not want to write: he wants the world to be a place in which he can live the life of the imagination The first quivering word he puts to paper is the word of the wounded angel: pain. The process of putting down words is equivalent to giving oneself a narcotic. Observing the growth of a book under his hands, the author swells with delusions of grandeur.

My day is coming. I will enslave the world - by the magic of words The little phrase - Why don't you try to write? I wanted to enchant but not to enslave; I wanted a greater, richer life, but not at the expense of others; I wanted to free the imagination of all men at once because without the support of the whole world, without a world imaginatively unified, the freedom of the imagination becomes a vice.

I had no respect for writing per se any more than I had for God per se. Nobody, no principle, no idea, has validity in itself. What is valid is only that much - of anything, God included - which is realized by all men in common. People are always worried about the fate of the genius. I never worried about the genius: genius takes care of the genius in a man. My concern was always for the nobody, the man who is lost in the shuffle, the man who is so common, so ordinary, that his presence is not even noticed.

One genius does not inspire another. All geniuses are leeches, so to speak. They feed from the same source - the blood of life. The most important thing for the genius is to make himself useless, to be absorbed in the common stream, to become a fish again and not a freak of nature.

The only benefit, I reflected, which the act of writing could offer me was to remove the differences which separated me from my fellow man. I definitely did not want to become the artist, in the sense of becoming something strange, something apart and out of the current of life. The best thing about writing is not the actual labor of putting word against word, brick upon brick, but the preliminaries, the spadework, which is done in silence, under any circumstances, in dream as well as in the waking state.

In short; the period of gestation. No man ever puts down what he intended to say: The original creation, which is taking place all the time, whether one writes or doesn't write, belongs to the primal flux: it has no dimensions, no form, no time element. In this preliminary state, which is creation and not birth, what disappears suffers no destruction: something which was already there, something imperishable, like memory, or matter, or God, is summoned and in it one flings himself like a twig into a torrent.

Words, sentences, ideas, no matter how subtle or ingenious, the maddest flights of poetry, the most profound dreams, the most hallucinating visions, are but crude hieroglyphs chiseled in pain and sorrow to commemorate an event which is untransmissable. In an intelligently ordered world there would be no need to make the unreasonable attempt of putting such miraculous happenings down. Indeed, it would make no sense, for if men only stopped to realize it, who would be content with the counterfeit when the real is at everyone's beck and call?

Who would want to switch in and listen to Beethoven, for example, when he might himself experience the ecstatic harmonies which Beethoven so desperately strove to register. A great work of art, if it accomplishes anything, serves to remind us, or let us say to set us dreaming, of all that is fluid and intangible. Which is to say, the universe. It cannot be understood; It can only be accepted or rejected. If accepted we are revitalized: if rejected we are diminished.

Whatever it purports to be it is not: It is always something more for which the last word will never be said. It is all that we put into it out of hunger for that which we deny every day of our lives. If we accepted ourselves as completely, the work of art, in fact the whole world of art would die of malnutrition. Every man Jack of us moves without feet at least at least a few hours a day, when his eyes are closed and his body prone.

The art of dreaming when wide awake will be in the power of every man one day. Long before that books will cease to exist, for when men are wide awake and dreaming their powers of communication with one another and with the spirit that moves all men will be so enhanced as to make writing seem like the harsh and raucous squawks of an idiot. I think and know all this, lying in the dark memory of a summer's day, without having mastered, or even halfheartedly attempted to master, the art of the crude hieroglyph. Before ever I begin I am disgusted with the efforts of the acknowledged masters.

Without the ability or the knowledge to make so much as a portal in the facade of the ground edifice, I criticize and lament the architecture itself; If I were only a tiny brick in the vast cathedral of this antiquated facade I would be infinitely happier; I would have life, the life of the whole structure, even as an infinitesimal part of it. But I am outside, a barbarian who cannot make even a crude sketch, let alone a plan of the edifice he dreams of inhabiting.

I dream a new blazingly magnificent world which collapses as soon as the light is turned on. A world that vanishes but does not die, for I have only to become still again and stare wide-eyed into the darkness and it reappears. There is then a world in me which is utterly unlike any world I know of. I do not think it is my exclusive property - it is only the angle of my vision which is exclusive, in that it is unique. If I talk the language of my unique vision nobody understands: the most colossal edifice may be reared and yet remain invisible.

The thought of that haunts me. What good will it do to make an invisible temple? Etichette: Cendrars , Henry Miller , picaresco , Rimbaud. Nel , Achmatova ed altri intellettuali vennero evacuati da Leningrado, assediata dai tedeschi, e trasferiti in Uzbekistan. Sul tavolo dimenticati Un frustino ed un guanto. Ricordando la voce del marito, singhiozza disperata. Portami via il figlio e l'amante E il misterioso dono del canto. Una volta qualcuno "mi riconobbe". E io dissi: - Posso. Disperata, compone una poesia per Stalin in seguito, vuole sia tolta dalle sue opere , sperando di ottenerne la liberazione, avvenuta solo tre anni dopo la morte di Stalin.

Vivo nella calce non spenta, sotto volte di fetide cantine. Chiamino pure muto l'inverno, sbattano in eterno le eterne porte: udranno sempre la mia voce, sempre ancora le daranno ascolto. Etichette: Achmatova , poesia , Vera Pavlova. Lo psuedonimo vuole incorporare nel nome sia la fiamma - "Blaise" - che le ceneri -"Cendrars". Scrisse saggi. Ebbe un notevole influsso su Apollinaire e sui surrealisti. Il suo vitalismo nomadistico e la sua costante esplorazione del mondo suggestionarono in varia misura scrittori come Valery Larbaud e Paul Morand.

Una leggenda fa nascere il poeta a Parigi, in un albergo della rue Saint-Jacques. Viaggia con la famiglia in Egitto, in Inghilterra. Con lui viaggia Russia, in Cina, in Armenia, in India. A vent'anni, nei sobborghi di Parigi, si occupa di apicoltura. Due anni dopo, a Bruxelles e a Londra dove divide la camera con Charlie Chaplin , lavora come giocoliere e clown in un locale notturno.

Tornato a Parigi, pubblica a sue spese Pasqua a New York. Tra i presenti Apollinaire, che ascolta in silenzio, ad occhi chiusi. Gravemente ferito da una scheggia di granata, subisce l'amputazione del braccio destro. Studia inoltre stenografia e rifiuta l'arto artificiale. Con un gruppo di zingari, conduce vita nomade nelle campagne francesi. Si ritira in una fattoria abbandonata. Fonda una casa editrice. Si occupa di cinema, a Roma.

Nel si imbarca per il Brasile; l'anno dopo torna in Francia e in un mese scrive L'oro. Termina Moravagine , storia romanzata dei suoi anni giovanili. Tra il e il viaggia lungamente nell'America del Sud. Si dedica al giornalismo, corrispondenze di viaggio e poi, con la seconda guerra mondiale, dal fronte. Dopo la rottura del fronte, lunga peregrinazione per le strade di Francia sulla sua Alfa Romeo disegnata da Braque.

Una serie di interviste radiofoniche, nel , lo rendono finalmente noto. Lo ritira la seconda moglie, famosa attrice. Quattro giorni dopo Cendrars muore. Et mes yeux eclairaient des voies anciennes. Et j'etais deja si mauvais poete Que je ne savais pas aller jusqu'au bout. Le Kremlin etait comme un immense gateau tartare croustille d'or, Avec les grandes amandes des cathedrales, toutes blanches Et l'or mielleux des cloches Un vieux moine me lisait la legende de Novgorode J'avais soif Et je dechiffrais des caracteres cuneiformes Puis, tout a coup, les pigeons du Saint-Esprit s'envolaient sur la place Et mes mains s'envolaient aussi avec des bruissements d'albatros Et ceci, c'etait les dernieres reminiscences Du dernier jour Du tout dernier voyage Et de la mer.

The next was Gertrude Stein, because she had none. Both had perfect ears and impeccable style. Blaise Cendrars , like Max Jacob, was a professional personality of the same period, rather than an artist. Henry Miller wrote about Cendrars extensively and admired him greatly. They have a good deal in common. Both Cendrars and Miller present themselves to the public as livers rather than artists, and both have a talent for engaging implausibility, which sometimes catches them short. Actually this sort of thing is just as literary as Walter Pater or Henry James.

Blaise Cendrars portrays himself in his poetry as a more picaresque and more robust and very French Whitman, a nonchalant knockabout who had been for to see and for to admire in all the most remote and exciting parts of the world. San Bernardino, California, is built in the center of a verdant valley, watered by a multitude of little brooks from the neighboring mountains. Trout pullulate in these brooks; innumerable herds graze in the fat fields and the shepherd stuff themselves with the local fruits, which include pineapples.

Game abounds.


So it goes on. Hilaire Hiler used to read this whole poem, ad-libbing all sorts of French-pronounced Westernisms with hilarious effect on the select audience in the old Jockey on Boulevard Montparnasse. Yet convincing he is, not for what he pretends to be, but for what he is. This is the sort of thing that translators seem unable to catch. Yet Cendrars was also intellectual and the introduction to these translations makes much of his writing on poetics. Our principal emotion on reading Cendrars today is nostalgia for him and his friends and the beautiful epoch in which they came to maturity, and this is greatly reinforced by the fact that nostalgia is also close to being his own principal subject.

Far away at the ends of the earth he meets a wandering tart on a transcontinental train and all the sordid purgatorial excitement of the streets of Paris lit with prostitutes floods back on him. The Far West or the Argentine pampas, which he probably never saw, are symbols of lost innocence and glamour. Soon he was writing free verse in the English sense, a little like the early, best poetry of Carl Sandburg or even more like the long swaying rhythms of Robinson Jeffers.

His translators do not manage to transmit these virtues. To translate him successfully, it would be necessary to have either shared his background and his attitude toward it or to be a consummate actor able to project oneself imaginatively into almost complete identification with his personality. However, this book contains the French texts on facing pages, and the English is usually not too far off to serve as a pony. The youngest generation of American poets should find Cendrars stimulating. Nothing less like the imitation Jacobean verse of the older Establishment and the Pound-Williams-Olson verse of the new Establishment could be imagined.

People are trying to write like this again and Cendrars could be of help — although the world of the working-class Bohemia of the slums of Paris that gives his poetry its special quality is utterly vanished from the earth. Blaise Cendrars is one of the first to introduce modernity into twentieth century poetry. With his style he ushers in a spirit of innovation into writing, he works diligently and tirelessly to find a way to express himself, a way to write his life. I need ten years and I will find my own language.

My style. For Cendars Trans-Siberian is the transition to a self-defined and elaborated poetic style. He solidifies that style, emphasizing the key to his poetry in the title. In it he discovers the hymns and free verse of the medireview monks of Saint-Gall. Cendrars finds Le Latin Mystique a profoundly humane work, and searches for a way to appeal to the populace at large with his writing, seeking to reverberate in as many layers of the reading public as possible. Poem seemed to me too pretentious, too narrow.

I had no idea what the differences between the two might be, the different approaches and complementary results, or that different versions might be needed for different purposes. Despite a spoken ver- nacular that deviated in major ways from Italian, which was in fact an- other language; despite the study of Latin and French, I took translations into Italian for granted just as the natives of any place take their language and mores for granted --as the only way something is said and done. Translation, in this frame of reference, is seen as the same piece of writing with the very same words but in a different lan- guage.

I did not entertain the idea that translators have to interpret what they read, and may interpret the same passage differently, or that if a word is ambiguous in one language, the same word might not be in another lan- guage. Dante chose to write his epic-length poem in the spoken tongue rather than in Latin, the literary language. And he consciously forged a national language out of his own Tuscan dialect. A language all writers had to sub- sequently learn, regardless of their mother tongue.

Alessandro Manzoni, who is given credit for developing the historical novel in the nineteenth century, and for enriching the language of prose, was a northern Italian who started with the language he had learned in school and then, he said, went to Tuscany to rinse it in the waters of the Arno. Translators not only have ways of reading first level of interpreta- tion ; they have ways of re-creating through their choices second level of interpretation character and literary persona, diction and syntax, rhythm and sound, tone.

Sometimes they have to invent what their own language does not have to come out with an equivalent. The original and the translation are both translations, and as such, approximations. Authors translate what they see and feel, the experi- ence of life into the experience of words, structures made of words, choos- ing out of huge vocabularies, and they may be more or less successful, more or less satisfied.

Regardless of how it was, how many versions this version went through, it is now fixed and the words are all a reader has. He has to try to imagine what the author saw or felt, and it is only when he has a view, that he can re-create the physical and emotional land- scapes. A translator has access to the original.

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For most of us, the approxi- mation that we call translation is all there is. Many of the books I read as a child were in translation. And in Italy, a great many prose writers and poets have also been gifted translators. Sometimes, they too took for granted what they did, and so did their editors and publishers. When I started reading English Literature in college with barely a year of English—through some translation error, I started college at all of it was equally difficult for me. I had no bias in favor of modern or con- temporary works as the American students did, and I made no distinction between the English and American dialect.

They had to contend with archaic versions of English, while I read contemporary Italian translations. The strangeness I had encountered had to do with content, with elliptical political and social references rather than with terms and phrases that had become obsolete. The picaresque journey that is translation has continued throughout my life. Not only because learning involves translation; I have been profes- sionally involved with translation for many years, in my work, and as a poet.

When I was still in college, I was asked by the poet Sam Hazo, who was one of my English professors at Duquesne University, to translate a few poems of Quasimodo. I did, and that started me on my way, publish- ing them in Choice, a poetry journal edited by John Logan. But that was the beginning and the end for many years. Life intervened. I had no time write or translate when my kids were little. But when I started working, still part-time and at a research job in anthropology with a flexible schedule, my languages came into play again.

I read and translated from ethnogra- phies, some of whom were in French, Italian and Spanish. I have since rendered into English hundreds of individual poems, and I have col- lected some of my translations of modern Italian poets in three books: the poesie-racconti of Giorgio Chiesura, who spent two years in various Ger- man internment camps during WWII; the lyrics of Leonardo Sinisgalli; and most recently the work of Bartolo Cattafi, a Sicilian poet, forthcoming from Chelsea Editions.

I always translated from Italian into English. Not that the language of poetry has much to do with the spoken tongue.

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Still, the point is valid. Also true that I always write in English, think in English, and have done so for decades, and that I seldom have much chance to speak Italian. Thus, the challenge of reading, digging, understand- ing, of discovering another persona, of hearing another voice is missing, and this, which should make things easier, make them go faster, slows ev- erything down instead. But I am doing it. Translating by the Numbers by John DuVal I was raised in the faith and discipline of the New Criticism, scruti- nizing, dissecting, and reassembling that exquisite monument, the poem itself.

This approach was useful because it taught us to learn from the mas- ters, how they packed the maximum meaning into every word despite the requirements of meter or rhyme. It was also useful in that we learned to cherish the words of the great craftspeople of our language. Where it failed, I believe, is in not paying due respect to the language itself and the infinite choices it offers of saying almost the same thing, with infinite slight and delightful variations and always a hint that a phrase could be better phrased.

For us translators the New Critical approach is still useful in that it encourages us to study each word and each phrase of an original to learn what the original writer has done to make it so wonderfully what it is. The problem is that it directs us straight to the Slough of Despond, where we stay, sunk and moping unless Faith in the language we are translating into pulls us out. We will not find in English the phrase that G.

Belli, for instance, wrote in Romanesco, the dialect of the people of Rome, but given how slowly our minds work and how vast our language is, we can always discover another phrase like it, and then another, and if we keep looking, we may find a better one than the ones we found before.

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I had thought the following translation of a poem by Trilussa, another Romanesco poet, was finally and after much struggle finished when I had this down on paper: To Mimi Do you remember our first rendezvous behind the Convent House, alone together in the cloister? Here Carlo kissed Mimi. Twenty years. I saw you once more, just as you had been, wearing a pretty lilac dress. Quindici maggio millenovecento. Eppure, jeri I wrote, Twelve February, nineteen hundred. Here Charley kissed Mary. I think it might have been the chance of rhyming Mary whimsically with a Romanesco word in the original, jeri yesterday , which first inclined me toward the English names.

Also I was fascinated by how, in this poem about the passage of time, the poet had handled words that marked off time: months and years, dates. What difference did the month make when everybody knows that given the right weather in Rome, the noonday sun can glitter as brightly in February as in May? Trilussa had been Trilussa since he was eighteen.

He even signed his name Tri. But he was born Carlo Alberto Salustri. For a poet who described his poetry and his personality as a series of masks, this mention of his almost-forgotten well, forgotten by me anyway! Also, as the months went by, it dawned on me that February is not May, no more than age is youth or disillusion hope. Carlo, Mimi, and the month of May too were all written back into the poem. While I was at it, I changed Rosa, who had been Rose in the English, back to her original name, but Paul, whose name in Romanesco was Pasquale, stayed Paul to rhyme with the wall on which he had carved his name.

Now, I thought the translation was finished, and I submitted it, just as it appears at the beginning of this article, in a volume of translations from Trilussa for the University of Arkansas Press. This is one of those few instances in English where what everybody says is an error and what is correct is pedantic. Paul could have been in love with Rosa in or or even in What difference does it make?

I could translate by the numbers. Vistas of alternate endings opened before me. To be systematic, I began with I had scored with my first shot. I read the English to myself aloud. The present perfect tense seemed to imply that if only Paul pulled himself together, and did something, he might still come out all right. Paul was a dead person; I was making him sound like a failure in the business world. I changed the tense. The problem was more than the tense; it was also the too active rhyming verb, done. And do would not do when I got to You might do. Carlo could address his fellow lover across the centu- ries instead of merely meditating on his fate.

This was more comic than the Romanesco, but not as kind. In the original, the emotion goes outward; self pity blossoms into sym- pathy. By ending in you rather than me, Carlo seems to be taking not only consolation, but satisfaction in knowing that someone is worse off than he is. Translating a little closer to the origi- nal might help But there were more numbers. I might try three again, varying the last line: seventeen hundred twenty-three. Four: seventeen hundred twenty-four.

What am I feeling sorry for myself for? For some reason I was fond of this solution anyway. Maybe the technical flaws gave it a kind of humor in accord with the sardonic Romanesco, but nobody that I showed it to liked it. Five: seventeen hundred twenty-five. Six: seventeen hundred twenty-six. Seven: seventeen hundred twenty-seven. But at the end of the sentence, when the sentence could have ended perfectly well without it, even sounds as if the translator stuck it there simply for the rhyme, which he did.

Eight: seventeen hundred twenty-eight. Other abstract words, such as predicament or situa- tion or of course state either bring on other associations in conflict with the original or are too vague. Ten: seventeen hundred ten. It is late in the poem to be introducing an Arkansas accent, rhym- ing been with ten.

Same as seven. Twelve: seventeen hundred twelve. Thirteen: seventeen hundred thirteen. Also, it evokes the metaphysical question of whether Paul, having died, is now experiencing Purgatory or worse, a question that has no place in this poem. I wrote more, with rhymes for fourteen, fifteen, sixteen There must be better endings, but mine get worse. But did my language sound conversational enough throughout the poem?

Ma io ero innamorato del Provenzale. Io sono passato attraverso questi cicli, e ne scrissi. Le lingue di queste poesie sono state esplorate, controllate e comparate prima di essere state tradotte Giose Rimanelli. Poesia provenzale in dialetto molisano e lingua. Cosmo Iannone Editore, Isernia La similitudine allegorica mi risporta al traduttore-esegeta. Vedi anche Annalisa Buonocore.

Dialettali e Neo dialettali in Inglese. Prefazione di Cosma Siani. Edizioni Cofine, Roma, Intercity, was published by Einaudi in Baldini wrote three theatrical mono- logues: Carta canta, Zitti tutti! There are no further allegorical, liturgical or philosophical significances to this con-credendo, with prefix? They do not accompany him up onto the stage to confront the huckster-performer wearing the shabby jacket?

After fleeing the lower levels of the theater that has flooded with water, the narrator climbs flight-of-stairs after flight-of-stairs, opens door after door, and meets a card-reader with cards all laid out on a table; is this card-reader a man or a woman? Un bel piatto? The translator wants to get this exactly right. He ex- hales. How can I explain it? He was in great pain. Each word cost him. Not a small plate. Not a huge plate. Is this an evocation of a particular line of po- etry? His most recent collection was awarded the Campana Prize. Each poem moves towards and resists Death.

His narrators also wander into anacoluthon, that is to say ending a sentence with a different structure from that with which it began. His poems employ the rhetorical techniques that form the backbone of argu- ment: indignatio memopsis oiktros, erotesis orcos threnos ara decsis diasymus aposiopesis apostrophe In the end his spine caused great pain, a tall, thin man.

Where are you? The translator read it late one night, intending to phone the next day to ask if it was possible to get a copy of the music. There was a message on the answering machine. The translator was feeding paper into a printer, catching yet more errors. Mumbling and imprecations. Cartridge out of ink. Empty paper tray. A computer talking back: Printing Error.

White stacks on floor, packages prepared for release to known addressees to reach the unknown interlocutor. The window was open in Milan. Here it is, he said. Mother of God! I, at St. This is an order! I saw you! Are you blind? Do you need glasses? I was soaked, a faucet? Damn, could he have hypnotized me too? Small Talk I had bad dreams all night, all these snakes, how did you make this coffee? I was just about do go down to see you, and so have you finished the skirt? I say that, what are they racking their brains about? He is cur- rently on the faculty at Bennington College, where he teaches Italian literature.

He also works as a writer of Italian films for DVD release. The main reason is translation. The English in the translation of the novel regularly tends to- wards the very linguistic medietas Gadda takes every possible step to avoid. It also offers extensive com- mentary in the form of linear notes. The importance of the linguistic elaboration, indisputable in Gadda, are of primary concern to the translator. Much effort is being made in the present version to preserve the diatypes lexical variety of the original, where possible.

Given the impossibility of translating into another language the aura parlativa peculiar to an environment, the translator must, however, try to conserve, in some way, the heterogeneity of registers that the introduction of colloquialisms and dialects represents. This new translation is a small part of the renewed understanding of this great literary work. Synopsis In Fascist Rome the novel takes place in , the young police in- spector Francesco Ingravallo called don Ciccio for short , a detective-phi- losopher from the southern Italian region of Molise, is called on to investi- gate a jewel theft that has taken place in an apartment building at , Via Merulana.

In the building lives a couple, Remo and Liliana Balducci, friends of Ingravallo: the wife, whom Ingravallo admires for her sweetness, and with whom he is perhaps secretly in love, is of a family whose wealth has been built in large measure on speculation during the First World War. Three days after the robbery, whose investigation is so far inconclusive, Ingravallo is shocked by the news that Signora Balducci has been found murdered in her home. He rushes to the scene and takes part in the preliminary inquiry, wondering whether there is any link between the two crimes.

It also abounds indirectly, via remembered citations from others in speech from the mur- dered Liliana Balducci — an anomaly in a novel where the Signora is central, though largely silent. In all honesty, I just focus on doing my job, as above board as possible. Not a pin! Anyway just to be on the safe side, I chucked it right in this special drawer here I got for that stuff, just right as soon as I got it pried out of the setting with the pliers, without even laying a pinky on it, like.

E come un cappone in mezzo a tanti galli! Il ciondolo doveva consegnarlo a Giuliano in persona. Una parola. A momenti mezzogiorno. Like a capon in the middle of a bunch of roosters! The one you estimated at two thousand lire? I want to give that one away as a present. The one you figured was worth nine and a half thousand? A magnificent water. You know to whom I mean! Liliana herself had insisted on explaining everything to Amaldi: how the two letters that he was supposed to engrave were linked together, how she wanted the jasperstone to be set: bulging a little from the oval setting: Ceccherelli traced with the nail of his little finger the clean contour of the stone, green, seal mounted, that is to say slightly overhanging the setting, and backed with a thin gold plate, in order to hide and encase the uncut face.

Easier said than done. But after those three depositions in his defense by the three jewelers, that were middling enough, there was the one, better still, by the head teller of the bank: the Banco di Santo Spirito. Round about noon. Ha raggione! Una bella signora come lei. Ed ecco il dente. In dieci anni de matrimo- nio, a momenti, che, che! I medici aveveno parlato chiaro: o lei, o lui. Nice little smell, just take a whiff. Fresh from the Mint.


Just think! I practically played the part of mother when he was a baby. The table, in fact, overflowed onto the shelves, and from there to the cabinets: with people climbing up and stomping down as well as loitering outside: this one smoking, that one flicking away a butt, another hawking phlegm on the walls.

Beat the tower of Babel on a shopping day. The doctors had laid it on the line: either her or him. Or both. So that out of those ongoing disappointments, those ten years, or nearly, where the pain, the humiliation, desperation and tears had put down roots; from those use- less years of her beauty those sighs dated, those ahs, those long glances at every woman, not to mention the ones with a baby in the oven!

Er maschietto nostro de quattro chili: un chilo ar mese. Diceveno: avemo portato li con- fetti. Semo giovini. Avemo preso li passi avanti Ragguagli e rapporti di subalterni, parole e carta scritta: disposizioni da dare: telefono. She looked at the girls; returned, in a flash as by deep-felt, despondent signal, the bold glances of young men: a caress or benevolent franchise mentally bequeathed future bequeathers of life: to whoever might bear within him the certainty, the seminal truth, the kernel of secret becom- ing.

The pure assent of a fraternal soul: to those who traced the pattern of life. But out of the dark manger the years stampeded, one after the other, into nothingness. That mania… for forking out double bed-sheets to the maids, insisting on putting up dowries, push- ing folks who asked for nothing better to tie the knot: and then the whim, that took hold of her for days on end, to want to bawl and blow her nose, poor Liliana, if they actually went ahead and did it: as if pricked by jealousy after the fact.

Our eight pound kiddo, two pounds a month. The bride, poor kid, comes in with her guy, preceded by a belly like a hot air balloon at the fireworks at San Giovanni. They said: we brought you the wedding cake. Naturally they were a little embarrassed. It was at this point, his face ashen, that Ingravallo begged leave to shove off: duty calling. Reports and memoranda from subordinates, voiced or in writing: orders to impart: telephone.

Roberto De Lucca shoulders sagging, with a bearing that seemed tired, absorbed. He saw him pull a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, engrossed in unknown cares. The door closed behind him. And now from the talk of the husband, made garrulous by hardship, by his sense of being at the center of attention and collective commiseration A hunter, he was! Saw himself tramping in with a bagged hare, shouldering his gun, muddied boots, panting hounds , needing to get it off his chest after the blow: and holding forth, untrammeled, on the delicacy of the female spirit and that extreme sensitiveness of women in general: which in them, poor things, is widespread.

Buttafavi and Alda Pernetti stairway A , whose brother counted for an extra six. Giorgio Roberti Poet, essayist, translator, editor, founder and presi- dent for thirty years of the Centro Romanesco Trilussa, Giorgio Roberti energetically promoted Romanesco language, culture and poetry. His translation into Romanesco of Er Vangelo seconno S.

Marco has been much praised and often reprinted. Note on translation G. Belli, writing sonnets in Romanesco in the early nineteenth cen- tury, gave an example for Italian poets with his sonnets that showed how dialect could convey the energy of conversation more effectively than stan- dard language. We translators of dialect into English in the United States do not have dialects to convey that energy precisely, so we try to make our verse sound like people talking.

This would seem impossible for A Stick in the Eye, a story over twenty-seven centuries old, but Roberti helps with his deft details and his sudden shifts of style, and makes translating his poem a pleasure, though difficult. Come te chiami? Here, taste. You call your country Greater Greece, because you dine on greater grease I guess--and stronger wine! Tell me what your name is. Corky Screw? Mouse Pill? Tommy Tinkerbell? Anyone will swear I am. But are you single? Do you have a wife?

Hitched to the single life. Then the poor fool fell, fell like a stone, like a bull with his throat cut in the Colosseum at a festival. They wanted out. Some promised they were able to slip him a little gift beneath the table; and others talked about friends in high places. Like it or like it not, when all talk ended, all that the lottery threw up were four pathetic bastards no one ever protected. Che te succede? Chi te fa piagne come un regazzino? Nessuno che me leva, sarvognuno, tutto er punto de vista personale Furious, frantic, fast, Ulysses struck it deeper and turned it like a merry-go-round.

At once that moribund volcano hurled forth great eye fragments and little wads of jell out of his monster brain. He yelled a yell enough to raise goose pimples on the world. As he was screaming, Mother Nature frowned, wrinkling her great face, and started to stir and raised up mountains from the level ground. Beholding earth beneath them relandscaped, many a luminous, uneasy star turned into a comet and escaped.

Are you all right? Why have you pulled your cave door shut and hid yourself away from us and out of sight? No One, god damn it! Ear ache? Then, hey, shut the fuck up and quit your belly aching. His poetry has been included in numerous anthologies and published in local, regional and national magazines and newspapers. Note on translation The dialect I have translated is referred to by local people as Lancianese, that is the language of Lanciano, a city of 30, inhabitants in Abruzzo. Although people familiar with Abruzzese dialects in general have proved helpful, at times I needed to consult with people who grew up in Lanciano in order to obtain the full flavor of a particular word or expression.

Lancianese, like all languages, has evolved over time. Some words and expressions are now extinct. E che diceme? Only go backwards or even better stay nailed to the spot where you find yourself! Love and song My love, I would compose for you a song one of those hammered and forged in fire, polished the way it should be and blended with notes that are shiny and passionate. I speak and afterwards you speak And what do we say? My Life My life: cloudy sky, an annoying wind, a Southern wind, a brooklet of water gathering to go ahead always among the thorns!

A sky that often has a hole that at certain times makes like a small window: at daytime, a velvet serenity; at nighttime, a glance of a star. A wind that, sometimes, if it stops leaves the dry leaves by my feet; What do you find that is good? Of a rose the only thing that you can pick up is a leaf! A brooklet, even that at times, leaves the stains of melancholy and goes, without getting dirty with mud, singing all by itself along the way.

The Song To those who no longer sing, the spirit of life is tasteless To those who sing more, the voice of the heart gets more flavor Concetta I Concetta, your petticoat is too hot swinging every which way as you walk! II E vie! La ruzze di Lanciane Bande e campane! Concetta, step more softly as you go: your hem is stirring up the air too much! Concetta, my God, why are you running? II Go ahead! Take it easy as you walk or the folds of your dress will not fall right! The resentment Lanciano Bands and bells! This is Lanciano: on top of three hills in between the sun and stars with the Maiella almost near and a drop to the other side made of sea.

Here is my dear Lanciano exactly the way it is. Ecche Lanciane: orte e ciardine, chiese e funtane, genta frentane, cante e camine, core a la mane, cipolle e pane ma Pure la guerre! Ma coma va? This is Lanciano: gardens and parks, churches and fountains, Frentane people, songs and walks heart in their hand, onions and bread but Even the war! Snow All ruffled and with those tiny eyes soaked through and through, that wee bitty sparrow under that snowfall, wretched little thing, looked up at the sky and gave out a cry. He looked for pity from saints and angels at least to keep the snow off of the roof?

Bagpipes Snow falls and I hear the sound of footsteps; it is really him, it is the piper that, when I was a kid, just seeing him for me was a good time beyond compare! But how goes it, if one -- is the bagpipe and the other one -- is the song one sings why, why, do the oncoming years go by more than the festival shines through my tears? He has published articles on Luzi, Montale, Tobino, and film. His translation focuses on Paolo Ruffilli and Davide Rondoni. In these ca- pacities, Rondoni has his finger on the pulse of Italian poetry. Three problems present themselves.

First, as a translator, I feel humbled and unnecessary: his poetic language seems so simple that I am almost tempted to overjustify my role by implying things in my rendition that were not implied in the original. Second, in this lyric unpretentiousness, cultural- linguistic differences arise. How does one reproduce the cadences that follow a rhythm found somewhere between thought and dialogue? How does one translate a word that simultaneously exists as the beginning of a new thought as much as it exists as a continuation of a previous thought? Central Park, fine autunno, alberi di seta elettrica e color sangue nel freddo azzurro del cielo che salgono si aprono poi piano che si spengono, ombra che sta venendo, aria che si oscura.

Senti che grida di barche invisibili. Nella baia nera. Cosa succede in questa poesia? And it starts, the frosty crown of the skyscrapers, to glisten on the more somber throng in the streets. I ask Oonagh: why do you keep your hair like that, grey at thirty. You hear the shouts from invisible boats.

In the dark bay. What is it that happens in this poem? Ripartirai con un lieve turbamento, quasi un ricordo e i silenzi delle scansie di oggetti, dei benzinai, dei loro berretti, sentirai alle tue spalle leggero divenire un canto. Non ho avuto gradoni di pietra su cui disteso perdere sotto il sole il lume della mente, addormentando.

My son, my traveler, your hell, your virtue might be your dog-like or angel-like hearing that detects the turning of the planets and a pill falling into a cup two floors below, where two seniors citizens attend to each other.

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  • This roaring love will be your father, your real one. Stop off for a spell in this highway rest-area, from the darkness it will be a pleasure to see you again I had avenues, wide, noisy streets, tall trajectories of by-passes, the open arms of a poor mother veins through which all sorts of things come into the city. I had tree-lined avenues or swift bouts of vertigo between steel walls and tinted glass.

    But during the night, when night does come, they recast themselves, new avenues shadowy, lonely avenues, when tall streetlamps illuminate them and the latest adverts fade out. Then they move delicately, branching, perhaps the whole city turns on itself; some end at a castle, others at a cathedral, others dissolve beneath the orange lights of a highway junction — the avenues breath in the night with their wide black plane-trees, their subway gates and sad, singsong lullaby sleeping over the children. E mentre lui cadeva tu bruciavi maternamente. And as he fell you burned maternally.

    But your arms on the windowsill before turning back to carbon and in a recollection were comets, Brooklyn bridges of love in the night outside of Milan. And I have taken them [from you, lady, leave those arms to this faraway dance, to the music that I and you from two shores in the shadows eternally share. The guy who for the whole trip stares at the sealed bag in front of him, the girl with the dyed hair and a pierced lip who wants to tell her life story to a stranger. Materia che non crede a se stessa — come questi viaggiatori, nel sonno che ingigantisce i vagoni nella sera.

    Matter that does not believe in its own being — like these travelers, in a slumber that amplifies the train cars in the evening. She was also awarded an NEA in translation. Raffaele Carrieri was born in Taranto, and lived a vaga- bond life in his teens and early twenties. He was only 15 when he was wounded, a serious injury to his left hand. He went back to Taranto, but after a brief stay, he sailed again around the Mediterranean visiting various ports including those along the coast of Africa.

    He worked at many jobs to support him- self, and on his return to Italy, worked as tax collector for two years. It was during these two years that he started writing poetry, the poems that were collected in Lamento del gabelliere In he went to Paris where he lived for several years among the poets and painters of the time, and where he started writing articles about his travels. He settled for good in Milan , and worked as art critic.

    In addition to several books of poetry, some of which won awards, including the Premio Viareggio, he wrote many books of art criticism, and biographies and studies of poets, sculptors and painters. At times, he even identifies with the inanimate. The adolescent search for identity is given body, substance, voice.

    And all the personae have some- thing in common but are also different. In translating his work, the challenge was in creating a voice that sounded like the Carrieri in my head: restless, homeless, lonely, in dan- ger. A man who often looks over his shoulder, and narrowly escapes; who comes face to face with death and is seriously wounded, his wounded, damaged hand giving him yet another identity. But also a weary man of no age, or even old, who expects nothing, wants nothing.

    The challenge was to create this voice, but also to preserve the variation in tone from poem to poem, the simplicity or complexity of narrative, the muted mu- sic. Their short takes and sharp images. Their impatient, hurried runs. Also, the shade and connotations are slightly different in English. In poems such as these, there is no room to move. Like the poet, I put my trust in the image. Vedevo sul comodino La ciotola di latte Riempirsi di tenebra E questo ancora vedere E distinguere il bianco Dal nero mi dava piacere. Altro non ricordo Di quella sera.

    Piccola morte So questo, era un soldato Con un paio di scarpe nuove Che accanto gli stavano A vegliarlo giorno e notte. Each of us knew It was the last evening. My eye and the bowl Were links In the same chain. The day after I survived the other. Small Death I know this: he was a soldier With a new pair of shoes Which kept vigil near him Day and night. He was shot in the chest And every time he coughed He turned his sky-blue eyes To look at the shoes That watched like dogs The infirmary cot. Non ho niente Non ho niente Proprio niente Che sia mio.

    Anche le mani Hanno cessato Di essere mie. Even my hands Have ceased to be mine. They belong to this bony gun which in the dark resembles me. Waiting for Nothing Light has not been my friend On the earth nor water my sister. The amiable rain water That like a mother puts to sleep The old tax collector And the young frog. I would have liked to close the sky Like a simple door To remain all day Hidden in the grass Waiting for nothing. Journal of Italian Translation Poems in English by Rina Ferrarelli translated into Italian Dreamsearch I was back in that other country again last night those narrow streets familiar and strange.

    I walked on the worn stone in the shadow of houses looking for a door looking for a face and again I woke up too soon. Back to the Source Granite and river stone worn by walking, wide sloping steps with short rises the steep descent but not the straight path of a torrent sharp turns and small wide bends where walls jut out alleys come in I always go up in my dreams upstream back to the source. At your features, your expression. She wanted you to smile off the frame, inside the frame and sometimes you did. Divestiture She unpinned the folds of white linen eloquent of place, loosened the loops and braided knots, and combed her hair into a bun.

    She untied her apron, took off one by one the pleated skirts, the black jacket with wide velvet cuffs, the padded camisole, the long shirt articulate with lace. Then stepped into a dress skimpier than a slip, and naked, exposed like that, my grandmother came to America. Linens Plain weaves, twills and herringbones, woven at home linen on linen, linen on cotton. Some are still uncut—a band of warp threads separating one napkin, one towel from the other—but most are decorated with needlepoint lace.

    Nei tuoi lineamenti, la tua espressione. Gli altri sono tutti ricamati ad intaglio. My mother, the more delicate one, the one who wanted to get away, sat where the light fell on her hands, and pulling out the weft threads her sister had worked into a tight fabric, restructured the space with floss, white on white openwork borders, arabesqued windows.

    Rough- or fine-textured, the linens I was saving were meant to survive soaking in hot water and ashes, milling on the rocks. I machine wash them and when the weather is good, hang them outside, the way women still do over there, stretching them into shape while damp. Most are holding up well; a few show signs of wear, but not from use. It was keeping them safe in a trunk for so many years that weakened the fabric. The Bridge Progress has finally come to the forgotten South. A new superstrada wide and straight as none before bypasses the shelf of road the sharp-angled bridge.

    The cross by the roadside reminds the few of us who remember fewer all the time of the men who died there hitting the rocks of the stream when their truck went off the road. Seven men who knew how to do without how to turn in a small place taking nothing for granted. The bridge is crumbling purple flowers grow out of the wall. Ruvidi o fini, i panni che conservavo erano fatti per superare le prove del ranno e delle pietre. Sette uomini che sapevano far senza, che si muovevano nello stesso piccolo spazio senza prendere niente per scontato. Il ponte si sta sgretolando, fiori viola spuntano dal muro.

    Broomflowers Chrome yellow against green stems in bunches on the reddish dirt even-spaced rows like a pattern on a quilt. Is this new or have I forgotten as I forgot the nightingale singing in the trees below the wall— what did I know then about nightingales— the row of stones holding the tiles down at the edge of the roof? On the breeze a whiff of their scent, delicate pleasing. The sun is down now, the sky turning indigo, but their yellow endures on the slope below the parapet.

    Inside rough bouquets in earthenware jars. Le ginestre Luccicano gialle contro i fusti verdi a mazzi sulla terra rossiccia file diritte e uguali come i disegni delle coperte nostrane. Dentro casa mazzi alla buona in vasi di terracotta. Italian Translation of Poems by W. Ha lavorato per 30 anni presso la Inland Steel Com- pany di Chicago.

    Dal al ha lavorato come tutore in Francia, Portogallo e Majorca. Ma soprattutto rimane un poeta che ci sorprende, che continuamente sorpassa le frontiere di una facile ammirazione. Ha pubblicato: il saggio Animali parlanti. Montale , Litania del perduto Prato , testo a fronte in inglese. Life, when all has been lost and the blame falls on the one who did not throw the rock, the blind man who without that singular limb the leg ripped from the belly in spite of the others, all three straight and strong cannot make his own dog return.

    Echo falling from the past whale beached upon the future, maybe remedy to an everyday life such conditional going in peace at the end of the rite. Musicista, traduttrice, scrittrice in italiano, inglese e francese, ha pubblicato racconti e soprattutto poesie: Variazioni belliche , Serie ospedaliera , Documento , Impromptu , Sleep , in inglese.

    Conto di farla finita con le forme, i loro bisbigliamenti, i loro contenuti contenenti tutta la urgente scatola della mia anima la quale indifferente al problema farebbe meglio a contenersi. Giocattoli sono le strade e infermiere sono le abitudini distrutte da un malessere generale. Toys are streets and nurses are habits destroyed by a general sickness. Estinguere la passione bramosa! Piazza Nicolai-Merwin-Rosselli-Bigon without passion or wanting to forget it I who burned with passion the passion extinguished in the burning I who burned with pain at seeing passion thus extinguished.

    To extinguish covetous passion! To distinguish passion from the true yearning for extinguished passion extinguish everything that is extinguish everything that rhymes with is: extinguish myself, the passion the passion burning so fiercely that it put itself out: Extinguish the passion for self! She is also profoundly interested in poetry and has published three vol- umes: Bartering for Dreams Clessidra, , English translation by Adeodato Piazza Nicolai , Blacklight Maseratense, and Searching for O Panda, On occasion of the 40th anniversary of the Vajont tragedy, she edited the commemorative volume Vajont.

    I corpi allungati Salgono le voci al Dio piangente lamento, anime e lance sotto la gola, inchiodano corazze e morsi nel violetto senza pace. Voce solitaria la parola del mondo mi grida dentro, quasi urla. Piazza Nicolai-Merwin-Rosselli-Bigon The Long Bodies Voices lift up to the plangent God lament, souls and lances beneath the throat, nailing breastplates and clamps in the violet without peace. The mists wrap around the hills prayers, drops of water on the stones. A lonely voice the word of the world that rips me within, almost yells.

    Others populate the echo of human depth feeding itself on the time and the place, without end. Dressed in black the long bodies are almost lost in the drawn faces of a people consumed by the look of one who is begging for justice no longer in the hour of death but of forgiveness. Grottesco come stare seduti sul ramo di un albero a parlare da soli. Non so se vale la pena fingere che tutto sia ideale. Paragrafo assurdo: non buttare via la pura finzione.

    Forse esclude la ragione ma il campo si allarga ovunque ci sia una misura di grandezza, e mentre ci si illude si perdono le radici. Vorresti il tuo albero quercia di luce con le radici strette nella terra. It is so incredibly distant maybe never a part of this world across what fissure will the camel come to pass? Reality unravels sleepwalking across a surreal landscape, bugs everywhere — blossoming lies with an overview in perspective ascetic glaciers, surviving lymph. Oak Tree or Leaf August flies off like a leaf across the tree tops with someone who blows beneath it to make it fly.

    That silvery filament binding spirits to the earth fades away into thin air. You would like your tree as an oak made of light with roots dug deep into the ground. Insistente il falsetto si fa stridulo sapendo di mentire io tu e gli altri. Mattone su mattone costruisci il castello invisibile con le tante serrature a manico.

    Nemmeno una nuvola. Non rimane che un feticcio di polvere. Voragine di corvo strapiomba il sereno ma non spezza le radici. Il gesto sonoro segna soltanto una melodia malata. The half-lie scratches insistently aware of its falsehood me you and the others. Brick on brick you build the invisible castle filled with handles and latches. Not even one cloud. What to believe in if all is smoke that pertains to pale longitudes to implausible structures like eddies in the storms?

    A fetish of dust hangs behind. The musical touch signals no more than a sickened note dissonance that does not frighten the donkey, its bray makes no sense even if nightly the moon lights up its pelt. In the end what can happen? His translation of Giovanni Raboni will be published this year by Chelsea Editions. Giovanni Raboni, born in Milan in , worked as an editor and critic. His many volumes of poetry are gathered in Tutte le poesie , which was followed by a final collection, Barlumi di storia, in He died in September Giovanni Raboni T he more I have read, thought about, and translated the poetry of Giovanni Raboni, the more convinced have I become that he is one of the great poets, and perhaps the single greatest Italian poet, of our time.

    Raboni, I believe, more than fulfills all of these expectations, and it is this depth and variety in his work that I have tried to communicate, both in the book-length selection I am preparing and in the cross-section of that manuscript presented here. In keeping pace with it, I have tried also to keep pace with the smaller effects on which the larger ones often depend—not just the hendecasyllabic undercarriage and the rhymes where they occur , but also the parallelisms, the alliteration, the abrupt tonal shifts, the restless enjambment that characterizes so many of the sonnets, and so on.

    Technique, of course, is merely a means to an end, and it is the ends that I have tried most to reflect—the striking and often quirky angle of insight peculiar to his vision and now and then simply peculiar ; the passionate moral, social, and political concern; the preoccupation, at times almost an obsession, with illness and death; the tenderness of late love. These are the things that impress us most forcefully and remain with us most deeply as we watch Raboni bear witness to the private pains and joys of his life and to the public shames and outrages of his times.

    Qui, diceva mio padre, conveniva venirci col coltello Ma quello che hanno fatto, distruggere le case, distruggere quartieri, qui e altrove, a cosa serve? Se mio padre fosse vivo, chiederei anche a lui: ti sembra che serva? Lezioni di economia politica Cosa vuoi che ti dica.

    Uno come lui, capisci, era per forza il nostro uomo con i suoi colletti rotondi e duri, la spilla, le scarpe da vampiro. Down here, my father said, you were well advised to carry a knife with you Ah yes, the Canal is just a few steps away, the fog was thicker back then, before they covered it Is this the way? Lessons of Political Economy What do you want me to tell you? Bambino morto di fatica ecc. Little Boy Dead of Exhaustion Etc. And you, if by some chance you were to faint, if no one else was there then you might bleed to death. For which behavior, you sentimentally suggest, he really should be thanked, no amiable or brutal quack having lifted a single finger there to willingly according to our will scrape it away.

    Personcina Quando dorme se lo chiami muove un orecchio solo. Succhia latte nei sogni dalla sua mamma morta. Morde biscotti. Con le zampe assapora scialli e maglioni. Dorme sui fogli. Usa un libro per cuscino. With love, do you see? He gnaws biscuits. He adores the taste of coffee grounds. He savors with his paws shawls and thick pullovers.

    He sleeps on leaves. He uses a book for a head cushion. Gli addii Ogni tanto mi sforzo di ricordarli: il ladro di verdura, il matto, la servante au grand coeur, il medico ecc. Strano gioco, ho paura, e assai poco redditizio. He quivers, green eyes marking the to and fro of pigeons. The Farewells Every once in a while I try to recall them all, the vegetable thief, the madman, and la servante au grand coeur, the physican, etc. How much time has gone by! It hardly serves to swallow sedatives, to numb the nerves and brain, the problem really is the soul, the soul that wants no peace, the stubborn soul insatiable in its burning swoops and swerves through ever more laughably difficult drops and curves in chasms or labyrinths, and we know the soul is not just immortal but immortally immature.

    I feel them, lighter than the air, as they graze me, split the goodness of the air, not exiles but commuters of the air in transit between fog and gold. Yes, it is true the curtain is still raised, and every evening there is still a show— but now there are no winners in our plays, no losers, and no blood, and no bouquets. And while you appear preoccupied by a variety of more innocuous tasks, you still permit your eyes to charm and warm themselves in it, brave and foolish as they are Ma cosa dico?

    Era fascista? What am I saying? Was he a Fascist? Of course he was—the way that those who pounded him were one of them from Masnago and the rest from Induno: by being born there. Never would those of us who were from those parts be so atrociously innocent again. He is a poet and essayist whose interests range from contem- porary poetry to photography, to cinema and music. He teaches at the Uni- versity of California, San Diego. Most of his life was however spent in Rome, where he was a teacher. His works, carefully exploration into the sparcity of language and expression, generally have dealt with human relations resultant from war, deracination, existential and spiritual conflict.

    His literary activity included translation from the French of the works of Proust, Baudelaire, Celine, de Maupasant, Genete and Apollinaire. He came to me deliberately of this I am certain to make a gift of it. I can no longer find trace of it. I see again in the leaving day the thin face whitefluted.