e-book Buia è la notte - vol II (storie Vol. 2) (Italian Edition)

Free download. Book file PDF easily for everyone and every device. You can download and read online Buia è la notte - vol II (storie Vol. 2) (Italian Edition) file PDF Book only if you are registered here. And also you can download or read online all Book PDF file that related with Buia è la notte - vol II (storie Vol. 2) (Italian Edition) book. Happy reading Buia è la notte - vol II (storie Vol. 2) (Italian Edition) Bookeveryone. Download file Free Book PDF Buia è la notte - vol II (storie Vol. 2) (Italian Edition) at Complete PDF Library. This Book have some digital formats such us :paperbook, ebook, kindle, epub, fb2 and another formats. Here is The CompletePDF Book Library. It's free to register here to get Book file PDF Buia è la notte - vol II (storie Vol. 2) (Italian Edition) Pocket Guide.
OndaDrops Vol. 3:
Contents:
  1. Guide Buia è la notte - vol I (storie Vol. 1) (Italian Edition)
  2. RICERCA PER CATEGORIE
  3. Index of /page_3

Sociolinguistic Implications of Sports-Register Equivalence. Saarbrucken: Lambert academic publishing. Bergh, G. Revista Veredas, 15 2. Free kicks, dribblers and WAGs. Moderna Sprak. Bray, K. How to Score: Science and the Beautiful Game. London: Granta. Chapanga, E. An analysis of the war metaphors used in spo-ken commentaries of the edition of the Premier Soccer League PSL matches in Zimbabwe.

Charteris-Black, J. Corpus approaches to critical metaphor analysis. Chesterman, A. Claims, Changes and Challenges in Translation Studies. Amsterdam: Benjamins. Fahim Afarinasadi 51 Chomsky, N. Some controversial questions in phonologi- cal theory. Journal of Linguistics, 1, 97— Crystal, D. The Cambridge encyclopedia of language Vol. Cambridge University Press Cambridge.

Translating medical ter- minologies through word alignment in parallel text corpora. Journal of Biomedical Informatics, 42 4 , — A history of Italian football. Igno, R. Lakoff, G. Metaphor and war: The metaphor system used to justify war in the Gulf. Peace Research, 25— Metaphors We Live By. Chicago: The Uni- versity of Chicago Press. Lewandowski, M. The language of soccer — a sociolect or a register? The rhetoric of violence in Polish and English soccer.

Language, Communication, Information, 87— Shahidi, Ed. Tehran: Amirkabir. Munday, J. Theories and ap-plication. London: Routledge. Muysken, P. Bilingual speech: A typology of code-mixing Vol. Cambridge University Press. Newmark, P. About Translation: Multilingual Matters. A Textbook of Translation. Hertfordshire: Prentice Hall. Master thesis. Vierkant, S. Metaphor in German live radio football com-mentaries.

Pdf November Vinay, J. Vinay, P. As an academic board member for Academic OASIS since , Fahim has authored mono- graphic studies and presented papers at international conferences in the fields of English and Translation, Etymology and Sociolinguistics of Sports.

Guide Buia è la notte - vol I (storie Vol. 1) (Italian Edition)

His doctoral research investigates localisation of football websites as multi-modal, cross-cultural communication. The translations have been also carried out by the author in consultation with Italian and Persian translators. Also, the following online resources have been used: www. Su Hysaj He also states that collocation is the habitual co-occurrence of lexi- cal items. La traduzione era fatta bene ma quel brano mi parve proprio detestabile. Poesie del Fogazzaro entravano in una antologia inglese del di cui tratteremo oltre.

From Cavalcanti to Fogazzaro, apparsa nel e recante fin nel titolo, come si vede, menzione del nostro autore. Questa consolidata reputazione estera non ci deve sorprendere. Ma osserviamo la cronologia delle opere di Fogazzaro in prima edizione italiana e in prima traduzione inglese: Prime edizioni: Miranda Valsolda Malombra Daniele Cortis Il mistero del poeta Piccolo mondo antico Poesie scelte Piccolo mondo moderno Il santo Leila Prime traduzioni: Daniele Cortis trad. Tilton, New York, Holt; e poco dopo, trad. Prichard-Agnetti, Lon- dra, Hodder and Stoughton; anche, stessa traduttrice, con pref.

An Anthology of Forty Italian Poets. Translated into English Verse and with an Intr. Dei sette romanzi di Fogazzaro, cinque vengono tradotti e pubblicati per la prima volta dopo il , anno in cui esce Il santo. Ci imbattiamo in tratti ostici al lettore odierno, che si possono sintetizzare nelle caratteristiche seguenti.

Intanto, il linguaggio dal sapore antiquato, ottocentesco. Sperimenta tanti metri, e sembra usare talora una metrica accentuativa irregolare. Quando il poeta si scorda della sua preparazione classica e mette da parte la retorica, abbiamo versi lisci, naturali nel linguaggio e scorrevoli nella prosodia cfr.

Targioni-Tozzetti, Antonio Zardo. Tutti i testi sono tradotti di sua mano. A questo atteggiamento mentale necessariamente corrisponde uno JIT Con eccezioni, naturalmente. Tusiani include tre poesie di Fogazzaro nel suo From Marino to Marinetti. An Anthology of Forty Italian Poets , terzo volume di una vasta scelta di poesia italiana da San Francesco in poi, in traduzione inglese interamente sua. Nel raffrontare i due traduttori, vanno stabilite delle differen- ze.

Usa un inglese decoroso, formale, con qualche tratto desueto. I due traduttori hanno delle espressioni in comune. Dal che si penserebbe ancora che il traduttore moderno potrebbe aver tratto spunti dal precedente. Ci fa tornare alla mente il caso di Emily Dickinson, che reclusasi vo- lontariamente per anni fra quattro mura nella sua casa di Amherst, nel Massachu- setts, scrisse quasi frammenti poetici che contribuirono a fondare la poesia americana moderna. Ma alcuni tratti sembrano proprio ravvicinarla a questa Miranda reclusa in stanza.

E forse il confronto testuale fra autore e autrice andrebbe esteso. Non solo qui, ma anche in altri luoghi notiamo questo as- sottigliarsi delle percezioni. Dovunque il guardo io volgo Dalle finestre, nereggiar li vedo A selve, a gruppi, or densi ora dispersi. Come si aman gli abeti! Torno per un attimo alla Dickinson. In fatto di traduzione, le due recenti poesie rese da Joseph JIT Dagli spiriti mali, Signor, guarda i mortali!

Dagli spiriti mali Guarda i mortali! Al bronzo ancora Sia pace. Con rotta lena Mia lunga pena Le piango omai. Solo un accento, Solo un lamento, Solo un sospiro Ancora, un bacio! Silenzio, pace. Le stelle ridono Vaghe del nitido Speglio sereno; Mi trema e palpita Vespero in seno. Solo un accento, Solo un lamento, Solo un sospiro, Un bacio. The hour of darkness cometh. Come, let us pray. Save Thine eternity, Are vanity. Echoes from the Valleys Vanity! For so much sin unknown, and so much pain. Have mercy, Lord! Echoes from the Valleys O Holy One! Thou, Mystery Divine!

Alone canst tell. Echoes from the Valleys Alone canst tell! That lives its life intense, Loves, suffers Thine adverse Inscrutable decrees. Echoes from the Valleys Peace! One accent alone, One murmur, one moan. One sigh — only this — As thy pebbles I kiss. Be silent, O deep! The stars as they smile Fall in love for awhile With my mirror serene: In my bosom bright Vesper reflected is seen. Silence and sleep! One sigh — only this One kiss. The silent waves hear; The dark mountains hear; They list, and hear only My murmurs austere.

Keep, Lord, from evil the men of dying day! The Bells of Osteno We, too, upon the waves from lonely shores must, one by one with deep voice run. And keep from evil the men of dying day! All that has birth, save Your eternity, O Lord, on earth is vain. Echoes from the Valleys Is vain. Mercy, O Lord! All grief and terror that still despise You, all human error that still denies You, all love by You not blest nor won, forgive, O Holy One! Echoes from the Valleys Can know the truth. Echoes from the Valleys Oh, peace! The Wave of the Lake And is the shore asleep, whose love I in me keep?

Only one word, only one cry, only one sigh, and one more kiss. Be still, oh, peace! The stars are smiling in this clear mirror, calm and beguiling; and Vesper trembles, and beats fast upon my breast. Only one cry, only one sigh, and one more kiss. The Waterfall of Rescia These waves have no more peace, these waves can no more cease: they ever flood and fall, and ever rush and roar upon the lonesome shore. Talora per la tua porta che geme Entran lume di cielo, odor di mare, Qualche figura taciturna e mesta; Ed anche in me, talora, entrano insieme Un folle ardor vitale che dispare, Un dolce viso tenero che resta.

To the Ideal and to the God I love one lamp still glows with its immortal light. At times through this your door, which seems to moan, fragrance of sea and glimpse of heaven pass, or some sad person, silent and forlorn. And so to me, at times, together come a frantic warmth of life that quickly wanes and a sweet face that tenderly remains. Fuor da ogni finestra Nel chiaror delle nebbie il lago appare, Quale deserto, sconfinato mare. Io sederei a poppa ed essi a prora; Senza parlar ci guarderemmo allora. Beyond, the lake appears in misty night, Like a deserted, boundless sea at night.

Could I sail out upon this desert sea, Sail out alone, sail out afar and free; And, when the vanishing shores are lost to view, Yield to my thoughts and to the waters blue! And they will see the bit of art I learned, and smile at such a little knowledge found; and when in vain they will have sought and sought, they will explore the cells of every thought. And then, before they leave me, with disdain they will, my darling, open this my heart, and out of it will dazzle then and there the deep-stored sunshine of your golden hair.

Looking at last at your fine hair of gold, and at your pensive eyes deep as the sea, JIT Si sentiano i canti ; E dopo, che silenzio! Mother forbade it. From my window, though, I saw so many people on the road Beyond the meadow. Feeble songs were heard. And then, what silence! One small falling leaf I even heard as on the ground it lay. Strange, I can hear now every little sound. Cupi, austeri, JIT Gelido fu il viso, Gelide e rade furon le parole; Ma per mille reconditi pensieri Non detti mai, compresi, eran congiunte Le nostre vite.

Voi felici, abeti! Confitti negli abissi dei burroni Dove sole non penetra, protesi Sulle cascate candide, sublimi Sulle torri scoscese ove non giunge Nemico piede, voi felici, abeti! Son commossa. Vorrei di qua levarmi, Non posso. How fir-trees love each other!

Bleak, austere, JIT But underneath, their slender roots are eager To search, embrace, and strengthen one another, In countless knots commingled avidly. It was like this one day. We used to live One near the other. Still our looks were cold, And still our words were also cold and few; But through a thousand deeply hidden thoughts, Unsaid yet understood, our lives were bound. O fir-trees, happy fir-trees! Nailed and stuck Down in the depth of every precipice Where sunshine does not enter, springing up Over white-foaming cascades, and sublime Above steep, rugged towers where no foe Sets ever foot, O happy, happy trees!

Living together in dark solitude Suits you, nor are you pricked by other dreams, Under the snow, save of the future sun. I am confused. How from this very pen Do such new ardent syllables come out? Am I perhaps this moment in his thoughts Or is my soul now touched by the warm breath Kindling his songs? Or is it only love, This love whereof I die, and which through forests And mountains keeps a part of him reserved For him alone?

Have mercy, God! I tremble. Ever the jokester, Mainardi composed the epitaph for his own tomb in Florence, which in Italian reads: I had this tomb built for myself and for anyone else who might like to join me inside it. The two anecdotes translated for the first time into English here are num- JIT The force behind the humor of such examples of early Italian popular literary prose often hinges on linguistic wordplay, including puns or sophisticated quips.

Sometimes, as in the first case here, they implicitly critique the beliefs or behaviors of characters representing the cultural elite. Facezie tend to be far shorter with less character and narrative development than the typical novella, and their messages are not aimed at moral edification, oftentimes deliberately satiriz- ing such writings, so they are not usually stated as explicitly as the lessons in exempla or favole, for instance. Among other Italian writers of motti and facezie are Franco Sacchetti in his Trecentono- velle, as well as Poggio Bracciolini and Giovanni Pontano , who wrote their anecdotes in Latin.

While I did not analyze the Motti e facezie di Piovano Arlotto in Speaking Spirits, I refer readers to it for examples of the myriad ways that other Renaissance Italians feigned ghostly voices for their own purposes. The protagonist of the first translated anecdote is Lionardo, the soul of Leonardo Bruni Although originally from Arezzo, Bruni rose to become the Florentine Cancelliere della Repub- blica from until his death.

He is esteemed among the great Renaissance Italian humanists for his scholarly contributions, which include the Historiae florentini populi in twelve volumes, his two Dialogi ad Petrum Paulum Histum, the De interpretatione recta, biographies of Dante and Petrarch, and translations from Greek JIT Here Mainardi effectively denounces Bruni for his perceived sin of greed by fictionally representing the charge as a self-accusation made by the roving spirit. He implies that the imperious Muses are ultimately unreliable. Arlotto neither comes across as heartlessly cruel, nor at all religiously abstemious; his act of withholding wine from the equally etiquette-challenged ghost of the humanist may suggest that Arlotto finds Lionardo to be exaggerating the urgency of his thirst.

Nevertheless, I opted for this translation, which captures the hyperbole with a similarly colloquial tone, but also tickles the awkwardness of a ghost complaining of a bodily necessity. Just as Petrarch trembled, froze, and burned out of love of Laura, so Bruni responds to his own passion, which is notably not for the state of his soul. Another esteemed historical figure mentioned in this facezia is Jacopone da Todi c. He was the Franciscan friar who composed pious lauds, primarily in veneration of the Virgin Mary.

The lines attributed here to Jacopone da Todi do not exist in any of his lauds known to us today, but are likely intended to resemble his devout verses because there is a deliberate play on words. The second anecdote presents its own translation dilemmas, primarily in the form of idiomatic expressions, but also a similarly rhymed incantation to dispel the morning fog, that is the brain fogginess of the hangover that Nastagio and Zuta appear to be experiencing after over-imbibing the previous night.

Given the narrative context Piovano is one who can talk his way out of any situation and the deeper etymology related to speech of fante one with the capacity of speech; an infant, in fact, is a being who does not yet speak , I emphasized this aspect in the translation: Piovano is a clever and consummate talker. Another idiomatic expression is non tenne la pania something did not go as expected , which is similar to cadere nella pania to fall into a trap , in that case, something akin to: their trap did not work the way they had intended.

In fact, Nastagio and Zuta originally aimed to get Piovano to pay for their wine, but they instead pay for Malvasia for all three of them in order to learn how the clever Piovano casts a spell to dispel their fog. It is a choice that I fretted at far greater length than will appear on the page. I am grateful to Linda Lee, Tim Kirk, Michele Rossi, Gino Belloni, and my fellow translators of the Middlebury Bread Loaf workshop for their excellent questions and suggestions that kept me pondering deeply the process of rendering culture and language between contexts.

Oh me misero! You must help me! What has become of that wisdom, learning, doctrine, and eloquence in Greek and Latin letters of yours?


  • Beginners Introduction to the Canon EOS Rebel T2i / 550D.
  • Similar authors to follow?
  • Journey Home.

Where are those speeches worthy of Cicero that dazzled the entire world? Can it be that Fame and all the Muses who once bowed before you have now abandoned you so that you find yourself in this fix? I leave my body and all my possessions.

La notte oscura dei santi

See what has become of me. Woe is me! Think of how I feel. I am very uncertain about my fate because I know the kind of life I led, especially in regard to my sin of greed, for which I made every type of wretched deal just to accumulate money and possessions. It cost me dearly but I never stopped wanting more. Piovano was absolutely transfixed, such that he remained there still as a statue for a full quarter hour.

When he regained his composure, he mounted and rode to Florence. For my part, I want to follow what that holy man, Brother Ja- copone da Todi said in one of his lauds, which is steeped in morals and good common sense: All is mine, I laud Since I rejoice and give, by God! And they gave charitably to wickedness together with the intention from that point on to do their utmost to always indulge themselves.

Io mi ti raccomando. Vedi se tue farnetichi: cognoscesti tu mio padre? A vision came to me just before daybreak, and it feels like a thousand years passed before you arrived Piovano, I beg you, do this good act and quickly, and for our part your money is not better spent than in buying Nastagio and me a half carafe of Malvasia. I come here only to realize that you want me to work? And if he had lived eight more days, he would have been hanged. I would not waste one coin on him. But if you two want to buy a jug of Malvasia for the three of us, I will teach you an enchantment, one that dispels the morning fog, so that it will never disturb you.

His complete works were recently published: Tutte le poesie, Gangemi Editore, Author of six critical books and numerous educational text- books as well as newspaper and literary journal articles, Filippelli is a deeply religious poet with strong roots in Southern Italy. His major themes are historical and cultural focusing on the plight of Southern Italy, on nature and on the minority of exploited or abused creatures and persons.

These are the first English versions of his work. Ti strapperanno con oscura forza, ignara e dolce, dalla solitudine. Io sentii da lontano il suo schioppo. Nulla gli dissi, lo guardai negli occhi. They will tear you, with dark strength you, unknowing and tender, from solitude. Slobber oozing hatred will drip on your innocence. To a Dog They killed you one morning, and you were old and so tired that not even a cry rose from your throat, few drops stained the dirt road. I heard the gunshot from afar. I ran. I saw. I said nothing, looked at him in the eyes.

He approached you, the coward, pointed his arm at you, checking to see if you would fight back, then he touched you no longer afraid. But you were still alive, you raised your eyes to his face, veiled by the agony, but without rancour, sad, slowly you licked his hand with your faithful mouth. O ansiosi morti There appeared our women, wrapped in shawls of mourning proud figures who surrendered to hunger and came down from the mountains.

They were behind their lined up pails, gestures of fretful but determined creatures, earth rekindling their faces with each breath of shame. And so too the British soldier showed compassion for those shadows hovering at dusk: they returned with the light step of thoughtful beggars, with their black shawls in their eyes silence arid immense. Oh My Beloved Dead The South burned you with staunch sun oh my own dead, my restless dead shy figures like the twisted roots of my life where a declining light deepens. The subdued event of shadows that descend from you to the sea I feel pass over me, as the earth feels the vast murmur of the grass in the rapid sweep of wind E tu fosti una statua di silenzio coi figli stretti intorno ai tuoi ginocchi, e mamma ti guardava dalla soglia.

Cadde tutta la vigna giovinetta. Tu rimanevi come un capitano fiero davanti alla sua schiera morta. They circled you with their snickers prostrating the delicate shoots, the roots planting their machine guns they searched your eyes to find your agony. As though you were a statue of silence with your children clinging to your knees and Mother watching from the doorway. All the young vineyard fell. You remained like a proud captain in front of your dead ranks. From Ritratto da nascondere, , Tutte le poesie Grass Grass is born on the edge of the roads it lives on a drop of light.

Over the centuries the human grass of the South felt the harsh steps of men, ignorant and on purpose, press down then leave, it bent over without dying, laid down curled up in the knots of its roots, in the slow agony of its land. Allora, in quel lontano chiarore si sbatteva, con lunghe ali di gioia, come un gabbiano, la mia infanzia. Then, in that faraway brightness writhed my childhood like a seagull with long wings of joy, Now my blind soul digs furrows in the Earth like a mole. His collections of poetry include Otto febbraio Scheiwiller, ; Giorni di scuola Edimond, ; Piccole poesie per banconote Polistampa, ; Corpuscolo Einaudi, ; Vecchi filmati Manni, and Mancanze Einaudi, He is also the author of the critical work Il cieco e la luna.

Parlava… Le carezzai piano piano i capelli. Era tornata la calma sembrava. La mattina le carezzai i capelli. Poi, tutta la giornata. Spoke in her sleep. I slowly, slowly stroked her hair. Things turned calm it seemed. In the morning I stroked her hair. And again, at night, upon going to bed my hand reached for the silk of her tormented little head.

Era anziano e malato. Era stato un buon pianista. E adesso, in poltrona, leggeva una partitura, eseguendola in mente. He was old and sick. He had been a fine pianist. And now, in his armchair, he read a score and played it in his head. And thought is something no less incredible, if you think about it, this nothing that becomes word and movement, the stream of terms that exercises its right to be pronounced in silence and flow here transcribed, the immaterial within the material -or perhaps in its void -like Grace in its mortal body.

Her PhD is in Paleoanthropology, and her studies took her to Middle Paleolithic excavations in France and Germany, where her long- dormant love of languages was rekindled. After a second visit to Italy in , she began studying Italian at the University of Ari- zona, beginning with Italian and proceeding through all the undergraduate courses. She discovered her passion for translat- ing with the very first poem in a level Italian literature class, and began translating WWII-era short stories in with Beppe Cavatorta.

He is the editor of several books and anthologies: Bal- leriniana with Elena Coda, , A. He is also the author of Scrivere contro Writing against, , in which he recreated a profile of experimental writing in Italy from the be- ginning of the twentieth century to the late s. Cavatorta also specializes in the theory and practice of translation and cultural interchange.

In he edited for Mondadori Poesie — Poems, — , the collected poetry of Luigi Ballerini. Cavatorta is finally the co-editor with Luigi Ballerini of Those who from afar Look Like Flies, an anthology of Italian poetry from Officina to the present. The second volume is in the making.

In , after living in various small towns throughout Italy, he settled in Rome, where he taught elementary school for the rest his life. With Il seme del piangere The seed of tears, the poet returns to the style of his early collections and more traditional poetic forms. The comprehensive col- lection Tutte le poesie The collected poems; published by Garzanti in contains numerous previously uncollected poems.

Caproni was an amateur violinist, and music is central to this collection, in which the rhythm of the poems mirrors that of the hunt, a symbol for the attempt to capture meaning through poetry. After the death of Caproni in , Giorgio Agamben edited a new collection of his poems entitled Res amissa Things removed. Le riconosceva una per una, come il pastore riconosce le sue pecore, e nel sole infinito che batteva su di esse fermava a lungo lo sguardo su quelle pietre cariate — sul suo paese tagliato dalla rotabile a fondo valle, con tutte le case vecchie ad eccezione della sua e di poche altre, candide pei muri di calce al sole.

Her eyes came to rest on each, confirming them one by one, as a shep- herd does his sheep. And as the endless sun beat down on them, her gaze came to rest at last upon those crumbling stones — upon her village divided by the road at the bottom of the valley, upon all the old houses with their white-washed walls except for hers and a few others glowing in the sun. But, she regained her composure — she had quietly accepted this new force growing in her; it was almost as if she had discovered that she was pregnant again. And without answering the children, filled with a profound sense of calm, she took them back to the place of her self-imposed exile over the stable in Casanova.

And looking at those planks, with cracks as wide as a finger letting the sour stink of the animals waft up, looking at her children who were so vulnerable, she wanted to explain to them the thing that she could not explain even to herself—she would have liked to instill in them at least a little of the immense hot tide that was in her, that thing that she seemed no longer able to contain. Right now they are there, and our house is no longer our own. She laid them gently on the planks, in the pungent warm air that came up from the barn, and as soon as they had fallen asleep, she had drifted back into her thoughts.

In her mind, she was climbing up the ridge and staring one-by-one JIT Un uomo, pensava Rina, simile alla gente nostra — un uomo con le nostre parole liguri sulle labbra ma incomprensibile per il significato diverso che in lui prendevano le stesse parole usate da lei o dette dalla sua gente a lei.

E le pareva proprio di sentirsi ancora una volta incinta ripensando alla sera in cui il tenente con un libro in mano era disceso in cucina dalla camera a lei usurpata. Io ammirerei suo marito se fosse qui con noi. Li ripeteva lenti — erano versi penetrati in lei lentamente, una nostalgia di lui, non ligure, per lei e i monti della Liguria di lei. Li aveva scritti suo marito in guerra e cosa poteva capire del loro lamento il tenente fascista?

She saw the lieutenant in her most private room sleeping in her bed, with a machine gun on her pillow. He is a man, thought Rina, not unlike our people — a man who speaks our Ligurian dialect, but is somehow incomprehensible; he spoke the same words that she used and that others spoke to her, but their meanings were twisted and distorted coming from his lips. She saw again in her mind the lieutenant entering her house for the first time with his men, and she finally concluded this: this man must be destroyed.

Because this is what she had felt: as soon as the Alpine Fascists had arrived, everything had turned toxic to her even the apple blossoms, even the red rocks and pines of her Valtrebbia, even the deep blue river running between the red stones and the crystalline sky of the Valtrebbia as if it all had been ruined by some invisible stain. And now the warm and infinite wave that was in her grew as she replayed in her mind the Fascist officer in the semi-dark kitchen giving her orders with a voice that had tried in vain to be kind, while his men were taking over her rooms and her kitchen utensils.

Rooms and utensils that they had stolen, just as they had stolen the Ligurian words — stolen, not in the sense that those things belonged to her the partisans had also used those rooms and things, except that in that case, it was natural and right, as if she herself had used them , but rather, she recognized, because the Fascists had used those very things against her, by making her an instrument in their scheme, and thus turning her against every true thing.

And it felt again as if she were pregnant, thinking of the night when the lieutenant had come down to the kitchen, down from the bedroom he had stolen from her, with a book in his hand. I would admire him if he were here with us. In any case, here is a truly beautiful poem, with words that even I understand. Now Rina repeated the verses to herself from memory, just to make them real again. She recited them slowly — they were verses that entered her slowly: the longing of JIT E la paura le era venuta la notte, dormendo con la madre vecchia e i bambini in cucina.

He had written these words in war. What of their lament could this Fascist lieutenant possibly understand? But it was exactly this that infuriated her: that in fact, he did understand. And because of this, she felt him now, with those intimate words coming from his mouth, more than ever her enemy over there in her bed; he was clearly a wrong that must be righted at all cost.

And now I can say that we will go back tomorrow. The woman had fallen sound asleep in front of the JIT Volle lei stessa chiudere gli occhi ai morti e prima che ad ogni altro a Sardegna morto col pugno chiuso. When the first firing began, she told the children, who had been startled awake, that a show had begun. The October nights were becoming quite cold, so Rina hurried quickly to the house that was finally hers again. There were still fresh droppings from mules and horses on the road through Loco, and in the house an unbearable musty smell of strangers.

But why had that hot wave inside her not cooled? She had heard that four partisans had been killed, finished off by the lieutenant just before he left, each with a shot to the neck, and that was foremost in her mind — more than the intense joy that her house was her own again. Really, and she felt quite sincere thinking this she would have preferred to lose the house than to have these men lose their lives.

Because she felt vaguely that they had died for her, so that she could take back her house—for herself, for her children, and also for her husband, whenever he might return. Il Natale diceva Pablo Ma il Natale non era sotto quegli alberi vetrificati di gelo e di luna. She wanted to close the eyes of the dead herself, and first among them, Sardegna who lay with fist clenched.

A fist, even when abandoned on the cement that way, that before was truly hard and Ligurian, despite his assumed name of Sardegna. And at last, without a tear, she knew that she had found a match for that immense, almost living thing in her belly: it was the same thing locked inside that fist, which no power on earth would ever release.

Per- haps it was one of the last chestnut husks, weighed down by the snow. All four of them were focusing on those soft thuds each clump fell, echo- ing the distant muffled rumble of mortar fire. With almost every blast — maybe while someone a child, a little girl, a mother died because of that strike, under the rubble of a wall -- another clump of snow slid from the trees, and fell softly as Pablo continued talk- ing, and someone died. But while the bells were silent, and not one single light was on, why did Pablo, continue to speak on that night between the 24th and 25th of December of Christmas that was no longer there, either, a few kilometers away from the village?

The clumps of snow continued to fall softly, echoing the distant mortars. It was a night, this is certain: one night of the year and of man. Le traduzio- ni sono comparse sulla rivista El Ghibli - e su altre riviste online e cartacee. Le sue raccolte poetiche sono state tradotte in varie lingue, tra cui francese, spagnolo, norvegese, finlandese, sloveno e afrikaans. Le sue poesie sono state pubblicate in oltre 50 antologie e libri di testo. Libri e tascabili Prairie Pub Poems tascabile, poesia. Wind Songs tascabile, poesia Thistledown Press, Saskatoon, Prairie Pub Poems poesia.

Thistledown Press, Saskatoon, Pear Seeds in My Mouth tascabile, poesia. Sesame Press, Windsor, Ancestral Dances poesia. Jan Lake Poems poesia. Harbour Publishing, Madeira Park, Coteau Books, Regina, Stalking Place: Poems Across Borders poesia. Air Canada Owls poesia. Nightwood Editions, Madeira Park. West Into Night poesia. Jan Lake Sharing poetry chapbook. Privately printed, Saskatoon, with Jim Harris.

Birchbark Meditations poetry chapbook. Writers of the Plains, New Mexico, Icons of Flesh poesia. Ekstasis Editions, Victoria, Today I Belong to Agnes poesia. Ekstasis Editions, Frog Hollow Press, Victoria, Smoky Peace Press, Grande Prairie, Halo of Morning tascabile, poesia. Leaf Press, Lantzville, Language of Horse poesia online; tascabile, poesia Coracle Press, Montreal, Road Apples tascabile, poesia Rubicon Press, Edmonton, What We Miss poesia.

Looking Back Sometimes I am shaken by a desire to return to that child I was- endless days under a vast sky, sun omnipresent as the mongrel that dogged my footsteps. A half-century and more removed, I remember each day bloomed wonder. Never bored, I did not realize how poor we were, having so much. Perhaps it is our nature to hold hard to what causes least pain?

To indulge moments of nostalgia is no act of foolishness. Sguardo sul passato A volte sono scosso da un desiderio di ritornare il bambino che ero — giorni infiniti sotto un cielo immenso sole onnipresente come il cane bastardo che mi tallonava. Suspension of Belief Cables, ropes and wooden slats create a seemingly fragile sagging arc high above the crash and dash of Capilano Canyon.

I am five. In my eyes this is not a bridge — but rather, some adult deceit designated to instill fear in a small boy. Father takes my hand, envelops it in warmth, strength and security a child comes to accept as truth. I step forward. Beneath my feet faith and trust teeter and sway side to side, nothing beneath me but a void my fear has filled. Mio padre mi prende la mano, la avvolge col calore, la forza e la sicurezza che un bambino riconosce come veri. Sotto i miei piedi fede e fiducia traballano e oscillano fianco a fianco, niente sotto di me se non un vuoto colmato dalla mia paura.

The Thief Reflects Tell me, what have I stolen from you that you have missed?

About this book

Surely you know I have taken only inessential fragments you would have shed without my help. I can in no way be dismissed as common thief, nor as cheap trickster. You must agree I am a thief of impeccable taste: I did choose you. Nocturne 1. Night is never dark enough for some. There will always be things to hide. Cold speaks its own language. The deafest ear will hear something. Fear not the night, the dark, the cold. It is ourselves that we need to fear. An open heart will always be hurt.

Close it if you must. All hearts die. Di sicuro sai che ho preso solo frammenti inessenziali li avresti sperperati senza il mio aiuto. Non posso proprio essere liquidato come ladro comune, o dozzinale truffatore. Devi convenire che sono un ladro di gusto ineccepibile: infatti ho scelto te. Notturno 1. Sempre ci saranno cose da celare. Il freddo parla la sua propria lingua. Paura non avere di notte, freddo, buio. Di noi stessi che dobbiamo aver paura. Chiudilo, se devi. Tutti i cuori muoiono. Closed hearts only the pain of no. Only a fool tries to stop the wind. The same fool tries to stop hurt.

The open hand feels good about itself. The closed hand always wonders why. Hourglass The evidence lies everywhere. Grains of sand. We ignore the image — the bottom half, its increasing sand. It is funerals we attend with growing frequency that give us pause, make us feel the measure, the urgency, the anticipatory snare drum roll. Beat by beat, grain by grain. I cuori chiusi solo la pena del no. Solo un folle tenta di fermare il vento.

Lo stesso folle tenta di fermare il male. Clessidra Le prove sono ovunque. Granelli di sabbia. Make it Last A flash of orange and black through sun-splattered aspen leaves, the faintest glimpse of baltimore oriole; or the brilliant scarlet shoulder sheen as a red-winged blackbird warbles from its wind-bent cat-tail perch; or a high-above dissonant clamour of a passing startle of snow geese etched white on unmarred blue: rare moments the willfully blind view as commonplace, or do not see. Beauty surrounds us — no charge, no previous experience needed. Stand awhile. Look and listen.

Make it last. Beauty is Where You Find It Why deny Beauty can illuminate a January day when wind has taken a break and the air is a hush, a blanket of expectation? Even that miserly sun, that furtive fox creeping ever southward, bounces brilliant diamond facets off sculpted snow, mauve with shadow. This winter postcard pleases me, even though I do not stand long admiring the chill wonder of glistening snow, caught JIT Guarda e ascolta. Nature dies with such flamboyance, such acrylic outbursts.

I gaze at this flaunting of fiery hues and unbidden names flash into my mind. I have seen too many friends too soon to the grave. La natura muore con tale fastoso sfolgorio, tali deflagrazioni acriliche. Io fisso questo sfoggio di sfumature fiammeggianti e spontanei i nomi nella mente mi saettano.

Ho accompagnato troppi amici, troppo presto alla tomba. I loro elogi funebri rammentano come ogni foglia del verde acero deve flambare e cadere. March Musing Alone with my thoughts I reflect on so many themes, but so often these musings return to you, the centre of my world and the wonder of it all, the serendipity, if indeed such matters ever are, that we managed somehow, with all the infinite permutations and random rolls of the dice, to found each other.

For we have saved each other and we have both been saved. In the finding, lay the saving; in the saving, lay the finding. Nel trovarsi, sta il salvarsi; nel salvarsi, sta il trovarsi. Sei motivi per cui scrivo poesie Biagio Marin was born in in Grado, a fishing village on the coast between Venice and Trieste, in a region under Austrian rule until He studied in Florence and Vienna before the First World War, and then, after service in the Italian army during the war, also in Rome.

He spent his working life in Northern Italy as a schoolteacher, schools inspector and finally as a librarian in Trieste. He published his first collection of poetry in More than thirty further volumes followed, almost all in the dialect of Grado, where he lived in retirement from until his death in From the s onwards he was recognised as an important and distinctive voice, a poet writing with apparent simplicity in traditional rhym- ing forms in a quite unprovincial way, whose dialectal colouring was in fact not a serious barrier for readers from other parts of Italy.

His rate of publication increased rather than diminished in old age, which saw him produce some of his best work. El corpo mio el gera una biondura de gran al vento ne la grande istae e ne le vene el veva la frescura de le rogie che score trasognae. Me son in paradiso! No one sees it. My death has been maturing for so long, the sickle only flashing at the wheat. I look at it and think that I feel strong and then I shiver walking down the street.

My body was a blonding field of grain on which the wind of a great summer played, and it had coolness in its every vein from little streams that flowed by half-asleep. I am in paradise! Poplars still tremble in the light enraptured with the breeze, and the world is at ease in this hour before night. Stirred I turn round and mark how the blue turns to gold, JIT Tra sera e note, Carne, carne tu geri JIT Profumi persi e prumitinti de cu sa quale ignote fioridure: JIT Flesh wants children to come the full moon and the sun, wants every crust and crumb to take on fleshly form. You were rich black earth wanting to make corn, you were solid stone from which a house is born.

I was born to stand watching on one side life which is just a cloud for the wind to unwind. It has unwound your hair, your breast it has undone, and your beauty is now where such things with God have gone. All faded All faded and nothing was there: a dream glimpsed in its flight, a weak breath of air from a summer already gone. That was the life I led: and on the horizon a mountain faded beneath the veil that hid the first stars of a night travelling on.

Lost fragrances that came JIT The light, the light, the wicked light seducing with its playfulness, above, below, and anywhere it liked, and lasting just an hour, or less. Wondrous the tricks Wondrous the tricks put on by flowers that are not made to last, by clouds in the blue air above sailing untroubled past. Never shall I turn you down, for you I always thirst, loving you with infirm mind much more than solid earth. Those parties of the apple trees drunk on the open sky, till the fine petals founder when a windy witch storms by! You, spring, are just crazy, summer, you burn the heart, and sun, you shine into the blood that revels in your heat.

I want to stay in your abyss in any of its ways. Lassa la vita a largo e che la vaga a pico; el to barco xe cargo del to nemico. La mutassion origina el canto; JIT Let life sail the seas, let it go and capsize, you have in your hold your foe and your prize. Nothing has passed Nothing has passed and died, and all is present and alive: morning and evening sky are one, light filled me from a single sun.

My life has been an act of love, which light fed with its food, and now light carries it away down a more silent road. It was a sunny dawn when one late June into the world I came in joy. He held the sun in his heart and fist, that naked laughing little boy. Silence calls to me Silence calls to me, and I obey. The ancient yearning of the heart is summoned from its deep hideaway. Thus it melts into the shadows, becoming rhythm, then words that make lasting music and then fly, JIT It is painful, the secret that the silence sets free.

The night has icy hands; it lays them on my heart; there are no more faraway comets on which to depart. But fate would have it this way, and he had to submit. The princess showed herself to be more courageous than them all. After all, the savage would not eat her! She put on a wedding gown, and accom- panied by the king, the queen, members of the court, and an im- mense number of subjects, she made her way toward the forest amid weeping and heart-rending cries.

E non era trascorsa una settimana, che il Re riceveva un avviso: Il Nano, di quando in quando, gli domandava: Ma quello cambiava discorso: Si era rizzato di terra, si era ripulito il vestitino, ed era andato via, lesto lesto, come se nulla fosse stato. Lei dunque voleva quel Nano gobbo e sbilenco?

Anche la Regina non viveva tranquilla: Il Re rispondeva con una spallucciata: Ma la Reginotta ripeteva: From that point, nothing was heard about her or about the savage. However, after a year, a month, and a day, there came to court a stranger who wished to speak with the king. If you give me half the kingdom as well as the hand of the princess in marriage, I will free her from the hands of the savage.

And before a week passed, the king received a message: They believed that this runt was trying to trick them. And at sunrise, there appeared the hunchbacked, lop-sided dwarf, who was leading the princess by the hand. She was dressed as a bride, just as she had been she entered the forest to meet the savage. The celebrations and the banquets never ended. However, no one ever spoke of the wedding or of giving half the kingdom away. Now that he had his daughter and the savage had been killed by the dwarf, the king no longer knew how to keep his word.

From time to time, the dwarf asked him: They went to search for him in the street, but he was gone. He had gotten up from the ground, had cleaned himself off, and had run away very quickly. It was as if he had never been there. However, from that day forward, the princess became melancholic. She refused to speak and to laugh, and she had lost the color in her cheeks. Did you want that hunchbacked, lopsided dwarf? Il giorno delle nozze era vicino. La gente accorreva in folla nel giardino del Re, dove il cavallo di bronzo era stato collocato su un magnifico piedistallo.

Par di sentirlo nitrire! Scese a vederlo anche il Re con la corte; e tutti: Solo la Reginotta non diceva nulla. Gli tastava il ciuffo, gli accarezzava il collo, lo spronava leggermente col tacco; e intanto diceva scherzando: Tutti erano atterriti; non osavano fiatare. Ma in mezzo a quel silenzio scoppia a un tratto una risatina, una risatina di canzonatura!

Il Nano continuava a contorcersi dalle risa: Cavallo, mio cavallo,Non metter piede in fallo;Torna sul piedistallo,Cavallo, mio cavallo. Allora il Nano disse al Re: The prince of Portugal sent word that he wanted to marry the princess. The princess said neither yes nor no, but the king and queen could not wait to celebrate the marriage.

The prince of Portugal started his journey, and on the way he met a man who was driving a large cart with a bronze horse in it, which looked as if it were alive. The day of the wedding neared. They were all astonished: Amazed, the prince asked her: She stroked his forelock, she caressed his neck, she spurred him lightly with her heel , and all the while she said jok- ingly: In the wink of a eye, the horse and the princess were no longer to be seen.

The king watched, and he saw the dwarf who was writhing with laughter, he with his little hump and his crooked little legs. He knew right away that what the horse had done was the work of the dwarf. Sorrowfully, the King said: But the dwarf continued to writhe with laughter: And finally, even the queen began to laugh. Only the poor king now felt scorned and humiliated, a pitiful sight. However, his love for his daughter made him consent. He turned his back to the dwarf and waited for the kick; however, the dwarf wanted to show himself to be more generous than he and, instead of kicking him, he said: Then, the dwarf said: With that, the dwarf ceased to be a dwarf and became a handsome, tall young man.

The prince of Portugal realized that he could not marry the princess, and he said: The princess and the dwarf they always called him that became husband and wife. And here we remain, just licking our fin- gers. This book won the foreign section of the National Frascati award in and was rendered into Italian by Antonella Anedda and Carle. Alfredo De Palchi was born in near Verona. He grew up with his mother and grandfather and as a teenager was tortured by the Fascists and the Partisans. He was then imprisoned for six years.

De Palchi has resided in New York City for over thirty years, yet maintains strong ties to his native Italy. It consists of writing no American poet would undertake. Although his poetic line is drawn out, his poems do not tell stories. They are always based on a precise physical or concrete experience, which is then arrested and trans- formed. We can say that his style is devoid of sentimentality. De Palchi is not afraid to confront sex and eroticism with shattering metaphoric visions.

The three poems here translated all from Paradigma, Mimesis Hebenon, are typical of his work from a thematic and stylistic standpoint, the erotic amorous vein, the trans- gressive spirituality, and the ever-present memory of wartime trau- mas all merge into distinctly charged poetic entities. In uno di questi alberghi, il Phoenicia, col nome inglese pronto per ituristi americani, ci diedero una bellissima camera con la terrazza sul mareaccogliendoci con un enorme cesto di frutta.

Poi ci mettemmo alla ricerca della solita guida disposta a trasportare le macchine fotografiche. Era basso, grasso, puzzolente, sporco: Kirschenbaum Some fifteen years after the end of the war [World War II] we went to Beirut, which was then a splendid city, its shoreline studded with fabulous hotels, those that the criminal madness of munitions makers would have destroyed some twenty years later, mowing down so many human lives on the pretext of this or that ideology.

In one of these hotels, the Phoenicia, its English name ready for Ameri- can tourists, we were given a very lovely room with balcony overlooking the sea, a room that welcomed us with an enormous basket of fruit. The open-air bar was set up at a lower level than the swimming pool, and once we were seated there the swimmers could be seen from low down instead of from above. Even apart from the pool the hotel was so pleasant that we stayed there for several days just doing nothing, resting after a very exhausting trip in the Middle East.

Then we set about looking for the usual guide willing to carry around photographic equipment. He was short, fat, foul-smelling, dirty: We visited one of the most beautiful museums ever seen, we bought some item for my ethnographic collection, Lino took tens of rolls of photographs. The next day Lino said: Thus we left by car on our own for Damascus. The road soon began to stretch out through the desert and on both sides we saw every so often Bedouins in little groups of four or five t a time.

Era una situazione senza speranza. In pochi minuti ci lasciarono passare, tutti improvvisamente sorridenti e amichevoli; ma quando arrivammo a Damasco era pomeriggio tardi, il museo era chiuso e ci mettemmo a girare alla cieca in cerca di un albergo. E inutile descrivere quello che trovammo.

Le didascalie erano perfette: Passando davanti a uno spaccio di scarpe occidentalizzate riconoscemmo o credemmo di riconoscere da una sua strana acconciatura uno dei beduini visti il giorno prima lungo la strada: Arrivammo in albergo a sera avanzata e trovammo quella guida orribile ad aspettarci. Finse che avevamo sbagliato giorno, che ci aveva aspettato fin dal mattino, pretese di essere pagato. No one was capable of reading the western alphabet and the border police kept on passing our documents from one to the other and turning them between their hands with a suspicious manner. It was a hopeless situation.

In a few minutes they let us go through, all of a sudden smiling and friendly; but when we reached Damascus it was late afternoon, the museum was closed and we set out blindly wandering in search of a hotel. Next morning we were at the door of the museum before it opened, and when they let us in we received our reward: The identifying note-cards were perfect: We left again convinced that the one in Damascus, along with the one in Beirut, was one of the better arranged museums in the world and we went on our way toward the highway.

Passing in front of a westernized shoe shop we recognized or thought we recognized from his strange attire one of the Bedouins seen the day before along the street. We arrived at the hotel in the late evening and found that horrible guide waiting for us. Avevo in mente che Lino se ne facesse un anello ma Lino non se lo fece mai. La visita al Castello dei Crociati la ricordo male. Lino attraverso lo spessore dei muri non sentiva e quando riuscii a divincolarmi cominciai a correre come in un sogno angoscioso, proprio come in quei labirinti di cui si parla tanto adesso nei convegni letterari, inseguita dalla guida che rideva alla Lovecraft.

E gli raccontai la mia storia. Rusconi, ; repub- lished But there were no other guides available, and we came to an agreement with him for the next day. That evening we read in the Blue Guide about what the Castle was and the next day there we were on the ancient Phoenician beach. Young boys were in the water up to their knees. They had already raked through the sand and now they were looking around underwater for greenish Ro- man shards of glass that they sell to tourists as Phoenician and that I com- plying with the rule bought along with a lovely star in relief on a round coin fascinatingly oxidized.

I had in mind that Lino should make a ring out of it but Lino never made it. Lino, as always, pho- tographed everything without paying attention to me and while I wandered through the corridors in the darkness between high walls, dank and black, I was unexpectedly attacked by the so-called guide, who leapt upon me from behind. Lino on the other side of the thickness of the walls did not hear and when I managed to break loose I began to run as in an anxiety nightmare, through those very labyrinths about which so much is said these days at literary conferences, closely pursued by the guide who was laughing like a maniac out of the stories of H.

The more I ran the worse I got lost, and I threw myself into a state of anguish fit to tell in psychoanalysis. By pure chance I ended up, guided by a thread of light, at a sort of window where Lino was leaning to photograph the outside, and I set up a clamor. When we went toward the exit the guide, who had made us pay in advance, had disappeared. And I told him my story. We never spoke of it further. The next day we left, with the sweet- scented slopes covered with cedars fixed in memory, beyond the bloody destruction that lay in wait for them.

Riccardo Cordiferro Riccardo Cordiferro , pseudonym for poet, playwright, jour- nalist and political activist, Alessandro Sisca, emigrated to the U. In , he, his father Francesco and brother Marziale, founded La Follia, a newspaper which was widely read in the major Eastern Italian colonies. Adapted from his similarly titled poem, it exposes the dishonesty of some Italian-Ameri- can bankers and their tragic exploitation of Italian immigrants, and touches on the emancipation of women.

Attributing it to the playwright is supported by the following evidence: Cordiferro also edited manually in what is clearly his own, characteristic handwriting. The script is replete with not only literary changes but corrections of typographical errors, misspellings, capitalization, punctuation, missing words, layout, form and grammar. The manuscript is undated, with no indication when it was typed and edited. The play was completed in and premiered in The date of this manuscript, therefore, could fall anywhere between and its last production in Audiences, composed of the displaced men and women of Italy, were hungry for enter- tainment, recognition, a support system and social intercourse, all emotional needs which the theatres and the nightclubs helped to satisfy.

All these factors contributed to creating an original theatrical expression: During the 19th Century, a great variety of dramatic forms and entertainments were essayed on Italian-American stages. First and foremost, audiences came to the theatre expecting to be entertained. Italian and European writers were introduced to immigrant audiences, many of whom had never before experienced the theatre or the classics of literature. The Italian-Ameri- can experience also furnished subject matter for original plays written by Italian immigrant playwrights, among them Riccardo Cordiferro.

Ad un ta tratto si sente bussare alla porta. Fate sempre la sostenuta voi! Siate ragionevole una volta! Io non voglio farvi alcun male. Sono venuto soltanto a trovarvi. E con quale sfacciataggine osate affermarlo? In casa mia voi non ci dovete venire Voi siete un miserabile, una spia, un traditore! Suddenly a knock is heard at the door. What do you want? You always act aloof! Be reasonable for once! I came here only to find you. With what audacity do you dare say that? You should not be in my house. You are a despicable sneak, a traitor! Con un gesto di minaccia Ah, tacete! Impedendogli di avanzarsi Si, ve lo ripeto: Non sono stato io che ho fatto arrestare vostro marito.

Ma non sono una donna senza onore io, e voi ben mi conoscete! Io non desidero altro al mondo che 1' amore di mio marito! Le mostra una borsa piena di monete Se io vi offrissi questa borsa? Scagliandosi verso di lui, come una belva ferita. With a menacing gesture Oh, shut up! But if that were true, I would have done it to punish your pride.

Love is an ironic joke when you suffer from hunger! But I never thought that when you married I would be made to beg you so much, to. With greater insistence, coming even closer to her But. He shows her a wallet full of money What if I were to offer you this wallet? Rushing toward him like a wounded, wild beast. Coward, a thousand times coward! No amount of money would be enough to buy my honor. Riesce finalmente ad afferarla per la vita ti voglio, insomma, che ti desidero Sofia!? Esci, esci da qui, miserabile He finally succeeds in grabbing her at the waist I want you, finally, that I desire you Sofia!?

It will never be! In the blink of an eye she rushes to the cupboard; in a flash she pulls out a pistol and suddenly turns around It will never be! So this is the way you attack someone who wants to help you? He picks up his wallet which had fallen to the floor during the scuffle, and puts it in his pocket, always watching out for the gun aimed toward him I will go, yes.

SOFIA Following him to the door, grasping the gun, ready to pull the trigger if he lingers another minute longer. Get out, get out of here, you bum. Giuseppe lo chiama ancora una volta. Io son venuto a visitarti, per vederti finalmente libero e compiacermene. Ti ho visto e me ne vado. Qualche altro giorno staremo assieme lungo tempo. Oggi, sei stanco e hai bisogno di riposo.

Then staring him in the face, wanting to make him understand that with his look alone his hour has come. Do you feel sick? Short pause Take heart, because now you will get healthy. I came to visit you, to enjoy seeing you finally free. Segue una lotta disperata a corpo a corpo. Tu non hai il dritto di vivere in mezzo a gli uomini Ho vendicato il mio onore! My wife sleeps the eternal sleep because you, you murderer, have forced her to die. But what has this got to do with me?

It was you who had me arrested, to take advantage of the poverty in which she lived and to use her for your own purposes. You won, because she was afraid that I would die in jail. But you have to die. A desperate hand to hand struggle ensues. You will die, yes.

RICERCA PER CATEGORIE

I have avenged my honor! His long and pro- ductive writing career goes from to and is remarkable for its variety. Il Doge was published in , when Palazzeschi was in his eighties, and a full six decades after his debut. The translation of Il Doge from which these pages are excerpted is meant as a step towards a fuller understanding of Palazzeschi for readers of English, providing for the first time a sample of his late narrative work. It aims to offer a readable and accessible English version of Il Doge that is nevertheless faithful to the complexity of the original.

Antonio Melchor received his Ph. I pessimisti non tardano a prender quota in un frangente come questo. The announcement was strictly limited to these circumstances, neither adding nor even minimally alluding to the reasons for or the cause of such an event, which produced no surprise at all among the Venetians, but only a jumble of conjectures, ideas, and comments; of differing opinions about what the Doge would say under these cir- cumstances, and how he would behave.

Some people said that the Doge was doing this only to keep alive a venerable custom, one very natural for a ruler, that allowed him to stay in uninterrupted and loving touch with his people, and that he would simply direct to the citizenry a warm, benevolent greet- ing that would be an omen of happiness, of general wellbeing, and of a long, healthy, and prosperous life for every single person hail- ing from that special place, which is not only really famous but also certainly among the most beautiful things ever seen. You bet they were careful not to say it: From his high lordly seat, they said, with its unrivalled splendor and arcane fascination, he would throw into St.

Others, finally, those with an excessively prosaic spirit, entirely homespun and tranquil at all costs, completely incapable of flights of fancy, but, luckily for them, inclined always to see everything through rose-colored glasses, thereby sparing themselves any jolts or anxieties, or even minimal disturbances, especially when it might upset their digestion, predicted that once on the loggia, the Doge would limit himself to dispensing smiles, smiles and kisses, an infi- nite number of kisses delivered with a regal gesture of the hand, and so many smiles that they would confound any attempt to keep track of them or to calculate their number, so many that there would be more than enough for everyone, and not even one citizen would leave empty-handed.

The women, for their part, asked, with an insistence that be- trayed a certain impatient want, a yearning that was unchecked in the most infantile and bizarre way, if the Dogess would be appear- ing with the Doge. And they concocted the most fantastic and vivid predictions about how the First Lady of Venice would appear and behave.

They discussed in minute detail and with crackling liveli- ness the style and color of her dress, which would be woven with gold and studded with jewels, and they counted, one by one, the rows of pearls that starting at her neck would cover her royal person entirely; and they all dreamily closed their eyes at the thought of the blinding sparkles that would cover her luxurious mane as if she were a legendary Byzantine empress: Knowing the great love, the consuming curiosity, the enthusi- asm that the Venetians have always had for their Doge, only one thing surprises us in this affair, leaving us in a state of wonder and taking our breath away and something had to be taken away, since we can no longer remove our hats as people used to do in the last century, when they would take off their hats at the drop of a hat and when, for the sheer pleasure of de-hatting, any excuse was good.

But something had to be doffed, given this extraordinary circumstance: And this for the very simple reason that he had not let himself be seen for much too long, having withheld his person for a very extended period, thereby denying his subjects their most vivid pleasure: But time, which during our moments of sloth appears to us in- tolerably slow in its passing, so that it seems eternal, quickly becomes quite the opposite once it has passed, so that at the end of it, even the longest life, brimming with tribulations and boisterousness, seems to us but a vague dream, evanescent and light, which we could even call a flash, or a puff like the one that blows out a candle: So the Venetians, one can easily understand, now that they would be see- ing him again, felt like it had only been a few days since they had seen the Doge.

So at nine that morning the Riva degli Schiavoni was already swarming with expectant citizens walking back and forth while they exercised themselves in discussions and predictions, pas- sionate and extremely varied, as we have previously noted. They all walked around with their noses in the air, impatient to have the re- gal loggia opened to their view. The marble which is the handsome attire of the regal city dis- plays the bright and delicate sensitivity of its soul, mirroring the iri- descence of the water as it is orchestrated by the light of the day, changing its shape and color from one moment to the next.

In that silent glow, St. It may as well have been that, for, taken as advice, wise as it was, their words, as too often happens in cases like this, were meticulously unheeded. People noted the advance of the human suitcase sandwiches and proceeded not to move by even a fraction of an inch. The suitcases near the major hotels were loaded onto and unloaded from motorboats and gondolas that were boarded and disembarked by strange pilgrims whose appear- ance was a marriage of beauty and oddness.

They were followed by their servants, who were also weighed down with suitcases. Some looked at these suitcases with the familiarity of habit, without really seeing them, while others asked themselves what there could be in such big, beautiful suitcases: His several books, nearly all republished in the last five years, are captivating evocations of the underside of Italian life from the late s through the 60s. Duri a Marsiglia examines the underworld of organized crime in Marseilles between the two world wars. XXV, Number 4, Spring The special ingredient in this case is the ingenious touch of compos- ing each of the stories around the preparation and consumption of a particular recipe for pasta and, in fact, the stories themselves read very much like tales told around the dinner table over coffee and dessert.

He is now working on a translation of Corpo by Tiziano Scarpa Einaudi, , extracts of which will be published in the Winter and Spring issues of Raritan in Fra gli altri, scelse mio padre. E come tantissimi italiani che frequentano scuole a indirizzo tecnico, disprezzava profondamente le questioni tecniche e si occupava, appassionatamente, di letteratura. Le sue letture, per quanto assidue ed attente, erano piuttosto disordinate. His reading, despite all of his assiduity and attention, was rather haphazard.

Like all those of the generation who were born under Crispi and came of age under Giolitti, his interest for art, in- cluding poetry, was first and foremost, if not exclusively, aesthetic. Mia nonna contemplava, come sempre, mio nonno, tacendo. Mio padre chiese al colonnello Pugliese il permesso di aggregarmi alla spedizione.

Naturalmente, a sue spese. Si era in giugno. Avevo appena compiuto non so se 10 o 11 anni. Mancava una settimana alla partenza. Da dove, cambiando treno, alle prime luci dei giorno, arrivammo a Milano. Quindi, si rimise in viaggio per Brescia.


  • OndaDrops - OndaDrops Vol. 3: - Come all ye fair and tender maidens :: Gli Speciali di OndaRock.
  • rhythum and verse;
  • I due volti della bellezza.
  • Cartoon Island Season 0-1.
  • I prossimi eventi.

Il quale ci stava aspettando davanti alla porta della villa, con un gigante barbuto alle spalle. We were eating dinner. My maternal grandfather, at the head of the table, interrupted his savoring of a magnificent pear, accompanied by thin slices of aged parmigiano, to say that in October of , when he was four years old, his father had taken him to the fort at Varignano to see Garibaldi, wounded at Aspromonte. My grandmother, as always, gazed at my grandfather in silence. My sister Franca, three years younger than me, had fallen asleep over a bowl of cherries.

The last of the great Italians! At his expense, naturally. The colonel for- warded the request to the Ministry of the Navy. The Minister, upon the favorable opinion of the Director of Personnel, said yes. I had just turned 10 or maybe We had a week to go before our departure date. We left in the waning days of June, on a late afternoon train from La Spezia to Genoa, from where, after changing trains, we ar- rived in Milan at the first light of day.

Indossava un abito di gabardine di un marrone molto chiaro. Sulla camicia avorio serpeggiava una cravatta verde ramarro. Calzava scarpe bianche dalla mascherina cannella traforata. Siate i benvenuti, uomini del mare! Poi, porgendo una ciotola di legno, soggiunse: Non era una tavola da pranzo, quella dove sedemmo qualche ora dopo. Era una specie di altare, sul quale piatti e posate occupavano il minimo dello spazio indispensabile, in mezzo a una selva di cimeli e oggetti dal misterioso significato. Guardavo quel briccabracche a bocca aperta. I had imagined him not very tall, but thin.

Instead, he was more stocky than short. He had on a light brown gabardine suit with an ivory shirt and a serpentine bright green tie. His feet were clad in white shoes with cinnamon-red per- forated tips. His head, perfectly bald, was tucked down a little be- tween his shoulders and his right eye was covered by a black band. Welcome, men of the sea! It was a kind of altar, on which plates and silverware occupied the bare minimum of space, surrounded by relics and objects of mys- terious significance. Propeller shards, statuettes in bronze and sil- ver, ecclesiastical chalices, shreds of damask, satin, and brocade, dag- gers of all shapes and sizes, aviator helmets, a dozen or so among them of oriflammes, pennants, and streamers, phials of colored crys- tal, a machine-gun ammunition belt with all its bullets…I looked around at all that bric-a-brac with my mouth hanging open.

Was I dreaming or what? Infatti, pochi istanti dopo entrarono le clarisse. Feeble songs were heard. And then, what silence! One small falling leaf I even heard as on the ground it lay. Strange, I can hear now every little sound. Gelido fu il viso, Gelide e rade furon le parole; Ma per mille reconditi pensieri Non detti mai, compresi, eran congiunte Le nostre vite. Confitti negli abissi dei burroni Dove sole non penetra, protesi Sulle cascate candide, sublimi Sulle torri scoscese ove non giunge Nemico piede, voi felici, abeti!

Vorrei di qua levarmi, Non posso. How fir-trees love each other! But underneath, their slender roots are eager To search, embrace, and strengthen one another, In countless knots commingled avidly. It was like this one day. We used to live One near the other.

Still our looks were cold, And still our words were also cold and few; But through a thousand deeply hidden thoughts, Unsaid yet understood, our lives were bound. O fir-trees, happy fir-trees! Nailed and stuck Down in the depth of every precipice Where sunshine does not enter, springing up Over white-foaming cascades, and sublime Above steep, rugged towers where no foe Sets ever foot, O happy, happy trees! Living together in dark solitude Suits you, nor are you pricked by other dreams, Under the snow, save of the future sun. How from this very pen Do such new ardent syllables come out?

Am I perhaps this moment in his thoughts Or is my soul now touched by the warm breath Kindling his songs? Or is it only love, This love whereof I die, and which through forests And mountains keeps a part of him reserved For him alone? She is the author of Speaking Spirits: His spirited sense of humor was on display, even well beyond the comic exempla that peppered his sermons, as evidenced by the painter Volterrano, who figured Piovano in animated dinner conversation https: Ever the jokester, Mainardi composed the epitaph for his own tomb in Florence, which in Italian reads: I had this tomb built for myself and for anyone else who might like to join me inside it.

The two anecdotes translated for the first time into English here are num- JIT The force behind the humor of such examples of early Italian popular literary prose often hinges on linguistic wordplay, including puns or sophisticated quips.

Index of /page_3

Sometimes, as in the first case here, they implicitly critique the beliefs or behaviors of characters representing the cultural elite. Facezie tend to be far shorter with less character and narrative development than the typical novella, and their messages are not aimed at moral edification, oftentimes deliberately satiriz- ing such writings, so they are not usually stated as explicitly as the lessons in exempla or favole, for instance. Among other Italian writers of motti and facezie are Franco Sacchetti in his Trecentono- velle, as well as Poggio Bracciolini and Giovanni Pontano , who wrote their anecdotes in Latin.

While I did not analyze the Motti e facezie di Piovano Arlotto in Speaking Spirits, I refer readers to it for examples of the myriad ways that other Renaissance Italians feigned ghostly voices for their own purposes. The protagonist of the first translated anecdote is Lionardo, the soul of Leonardo Bruni Although originally from Arezzo, Bruni rose to become the Florentine Cancelliere della Repub- blica from until his death. He is esteemed among the great Renaissance Italian humanists for his scholarly contributions, which include the Historiae florentini populi in twelve volumes, his two Dialogi ad Petrum Paulum Histum, the De interpretatione recta, biographies of Dante and Petrarch, and translations from Greek JIT Here Mainardi effectively denounces Bruni for his perceived sin of greed by fictionally representing the charge as a self-accusation made by the roving spirit.

He implies that the imperious Muses are ultimately unreliable. Arlotto neither comes across as heartlessly cruel, nor at all religiously abstemious; his act of withholding wine from the equally etiquette-challenged ghost of the humanist may suggest that Arlotto finds Lionardo to be exaggerating the urgency of his thirst. Nevertheless, I opted for this translation, which captures the hyperbole with a similarly colloquial tone, but also tickles the awkwardness of a ghost complaining of a bodily necessity.

Just as Petrarch trembled, froze, and burned out of love of Laura, so Bruni responds to his own passion, which is notably not for the state of his soul. Another esteemed historical figure mentioned in this facezia is Jacopone da Todi c. He was the Franciscan friar who composed pious lauds, primarily in veneration of the Virgin Mary. The lines attributed here to Jacopone da Todi do not exist in any of his lauds known to us today, but are likely intended to resemble his devout verses because there is a deliberate play on words.

But in a different tone or with a different emphasis, the same lines can sound greedy and possessive, akin to: The second anecdote presents its own translation dilemmas, primarily in the form of idiomatic expressions, but also a similarly rhymed incantation to dispel the morning fog, that is the brain fogginess of the hangover that Nastagio and Zuta appear to be experiencing after over-imbibing the previous night.

Given the narrative context Piovano is one who can talk his way out of any situation and the deeper etymology related to speech of fante one with the capacity of speech; an infant, in fact, is a being who does not yet speak , I emphasized this aspect in the translation: Piovano is a clever and consummate talker. Another idiomatic expression is non tenne la pania something did not go as expected , which is similar to cadere nella pania to fall into a trap , in that case, something akin to: In fact, Nastagio and Zuta originally aimed to get Piovano to pay for their wine, but they instead pay for Malvasia for all three of them in order to learn how the clever Piovano casts a spell to dispel their fog.

The incantation rhymes in the original Italian, but it is awk- ward: It is a choice that I fretted at far greater length than will appear on the page. I am grateful to Linda Lee, Tim Kirk, Michele Rossi, Gino Belloni, and my fellow translators of the Middlebury Bread Loaf workshop for their excellent questions and suggestions that kept me pondering deeply the process of rendering culture and language between contexts.

On the Death of Leonardo Bruni from Arezzo Passing through Uccellatoio, Piovano Arlotto paused to ex- change a few words about business with Agnolo the innkeeper there. Then he dismounted and was leading his horse into the stable when somebody — highly agitated and in a terrible hurry — called out to him: You must help me!

What has become of that wisdom, learning, doctrine, and eloquence in Greek and Latin letters of yours? Where are those speeches worthy of Cicero that dazzled the entire world?