Alleanza di Sangue (Legami di sangue Vol. 1) (Italian Edition)

Dreamspinner Press

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I monasteri continuarono la tradizione scritturale latina dell' Impero romano d'Occidente. La tradizione e lo stile dell' Impero romano predominava ancora, ma gradualmente emerse la cultura del libro medievale. I monaci irlandesi introdussero la spaziatura tra le parole nel VII secolo. L'innovazione fu poi adottata anche nei Paesi neolatini come l'Italia , anche se non divenne comune prima del XII secolo.

Si ritiene che l'inserimento di spazi tra le parole abbia favorito il passaggio dalla lettura semi-vocalizzata a quella silenziosa. Prima dell'invenzione e della diffusione del torchio tipografico , quasi tutti i libri venivano copiati a mano, il che li rendeva costosi e relativamente rari. I piccoli monasteri di solito possedevano al massimo qualche decina di libri, forse qualche centinaio quelli di medie dimensioni. Il processo della produzione di un libro era lungo e laborioso. Infine, il libro veniva rilegato dal rilegatore [26].

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Le copertine erano fatte di legno e ricoperte di cuoio. Esistono testi scritti in rosso o addirittura in oro, e diversi colori venivano utilizzati per le miniature. A volte la pergamena era tutta di colore viola e il testo vi era scritto in oro o argento per esempio, il Codex Argenteus. Per tutto l'Alto Medioevo i libri furono copiati prevalentemente nei monasteri, uno alla volta. Il sistema venne gestito da corporazioni laiche di cartolai , che produssero sia materiale religioso che profano [28].

Nelle prime biblioteche pubbliche i libri venivano spesso incatenati ad una libreria o scrivania per impedirne il furto. Questi libri furono chiamati libri catenati. Vedi illustrazione a margine. L' ebraismo ha mantenuto in vita l'arte dello scriba fino ad oggi. Anche gli arabi produssero e rilegarono libri durante il periodo medievale islamico , sviluppando tecniche avanzate di calligrafia araba , miniatura e legatoria.

Col metodo di controllo, solo "gli autori potevano autorizzare le copie, e questo veniva fatto in riunioni pubbliche, in cui il copista leggeva il testo ad alta voce in presenza dell'autore, il quale poi la certificava come precisa". In xilografia , un'immagine a bassorilievo di una pagina intera veniva intarsiata su tavolette di legno, inchiostrata e usata per stampare le copie di quella pagina. Questo metodo ebbe origine in Cina , durante la Dinastia Han prima del a. I monaci o altri che le scrivevano, venivano pagati profumatamente. I primi libri stampati, i singoli fogli e le immagini che furono creati prima del in Europa, sono noti come incunaboli.

Folio 14 recto del Vergilius romanus che contiene un ritratto dell'autore Virgilio. Da notare la libreria capsa , il leggio ed il testo scritto senza spazi in capitale rustica. Leggio con libri catenati , Biblioteca Malatestiana di Cesena. Incunabolo del XV secolo. Si noti la copertina lavorata, le borchie d'angolo e i morsetti. Insegnamenti scelti di saggi buddisti , il primo libro stampato con caratteri metallici mobili, Le macchine da stampa a vapore diventarono popolari nel XIX secolo.

Queste macchine potevano stampare 1. Le macchine tipografiche monotipo e linotipo furono introdotte verso la fine del XIX secolo. Nel [34] nasce il Progetto Gutenberg , lanciato da Michael S.

Hart , la prima biblioteca di versioni elettroniche liberamente riproducibili di libri stampati. I libri a stampa sono prodotti stampando ciascuna imposizione tipografica su un foglio di carta. Le varie segnature vengono rilegate per ottenere il volume. L'apertura delle pagine, specialmente nelle edizioni in brossura , era di solito lasciata al lettore fino agli anni sessanta del XX secolo , mentre ora le segnature vengono rifilate direttamente dalla tipografia. Nei libri antichi il formato dipende dal numero di piegature che il foglio subisce e, quindi, dal numero di carte e pagine stampate sul foglio.

Le "carte di guardia", o risguardi, o sguardie, sono le carte di apertura e chiusura del libro vero e proprio, che collegano materialmente il corpo del libro alla coperta o legatura. Non facendo parte delle segnature , non sono mai contati come pagine. Si chiama "controguardia" la carta che viene incollata su ciascun "contropiatto" la parte interna del "piatto" della coperta, permettendone il definitivo ancoraggio.

In origine era costituito dalla firma del copista o dello scriba, e riportava data, luogo e autore del testo; in seguito fu la formula conclusiva dei libri stampati nel XV e XVI secolo che conteneva, spesso in inchiostro rosso, il nome dello stampatore, luogo e data di stampa e l'insegna dell'editore. Usata raramente fino a tutto il Settecento quando solitamente l'editore vendeva i libri slegati o applicava una semplice copertina di protezione, che veniva poi gettata dal legatore divenne molto popolare a partire dai primi anni dell' Ottocento , forse su impulso degli stampatori Brasseur di Parigi [38].

Nel libro antico poteva essere rivestita di svariati materiali: Poteva essere decorata con impressioni a secco o dorature. Ciascuno dei due cartoni che costituiscono la copertina viene chiamato piatto. Nel XIX secolo la coperta acquista una prevalente funzione promozionale. Ha caratterizzato a lungo l'editoria per l'infanzia e oggi, ricoperto da una "sovraccoperta", costituisce il tratto caratteristico delle edizioni maggiori.

Le "alette" o "bandelle" comunemente dette "risvolti di copertina" sono le piegature interne della copertina o della sovraccoperta vedi infra.

Generalmente vengono utilizzate per una succinta introduzione al testo e per notizie biografiche essenziali sull'autore. Di norma, riporta le indicazioni di titolo e autore. I libri con copertina cartonata in genere sono rivestiti da una "sovraccoperta". I tagli possono essere al naturale, decorati o colorati in vario modo. 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. 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. You pronounce the promise: 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: 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.

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E ti ricordi, non ne perdevamo una: 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 Does it seem good to you? 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. Con le zampe assapora scialli e maglioni. Usa un libro per cuscino. With love, do you see? 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: 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 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: 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 poetry has been recognized with major prizes in Italy: 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. The sleeve in lace. The grace, so gentle and germanic in its offering. A wind of impact - an air almost siliceous chills now the room. Is it the blade of a knife? Torment beyond the glass and wood - closed - of the shutter? I can no longer find sign of it. I ask the morgana. Conosco le cretacee porte che danno sul mare. Ma i cardini della nascita? I cardini della morte?

Parts - remote - the dawning mouth, but does not speak. She cannot - nothing can - anwer. I no longer hope to find her. I have too jealously irrecoverably hidden her. Reasons The reasons for light. I know the cretaceous doors that lead to the sea. But the reasons for birth? The reasons for death? Era, la sua ragione eversa, la sola Cosa non persa? Was, his ruined reason, the only Thing not lost? Unaware He was under the illusion, having found the accurately lost object again, of having gained something.

It was a momentary joy. And he was left troubled. Almost like someone who suddenly finds himself stripped of an income. He, unaware that anything found again is - always - a loss. But the hard living bodies? The two compact masses taut - almost steelescent? Where the two projecting people?. It is therefore - the place of every conjunction - perpetual parallax? Inventions Those impalpable voices almost transparent. The blue of all those black eyes - non existent?

Distant - always more distant - from itself, the mind has lost the name of it. Incorporeal - aphonic - couriers of extinguished notes. A former Wallace Stegner Fellow and the recipient of recent fellowships from the NEA and the Guggenheim Foundation, he teaches creative writing and translation at the University of Arkansas. His website is www. Guido Gozzano was born in Turin in and died there in , after a long battle with tuberculosis. That label, coined by a critic as a slight, suggests a particular attitude toward the past, as if the long day of Italian culture were winding down and nothing remained but dim and fading traces, twilight pieces.

In a land that had produced Rome and the Renaissance, Dante and Leopardi, such an attitude was perhaps inevitable and was, in any case, pervasive; it was precisely this sort of passatismo against which the futuristi would shortly rebel. Though not typical of his best- known work, it is profoundly beguiling.

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The final line also suggests parallels with another famous journey: Giovanni Pascoli was born in in San Mauro di Romagna a town later renamed San Mauro Pascoli in his honor and died in Bologna, where he had followed Carducci as professor of Italian literature, in His personal life was famously full of tragedy: In he published his first collection of poems in Italian and also won the first of thirteen gold medals for his Latin poetry from the Royal Dutch Academy.

The title of his first book, Myricae, is neatly emblematic of this aspect of his poetics: Subsequent books include Poemetti Shorter poems, , Canti di Castelvecchio Songs from Castelvecchio, , Poemi conviviali Convivial Poems, , and several others. It is not without fascination, but part of its fascina- tion surely lies in our knowledge that it is based on actual events. But both also suffer from melodrama that verges on mawkishness. It was such qualities that I tried hardest to convey. Invano le galee panciute a vele tonde, le caravelle invano armarono la prora: Appare talora di lontano tra Teneriffe e Palma, soffusa di mistero: La segnano le carte antiche dei corsari.

Radono con le prore quella beata riva: But loveliest of all, the Unfound Isle: The island was not there. In vain the sails of the stout galleys swelled, in vain they fitted out their caravels: Occasionally it appears between La Palma and Tenerife, beguiling. Their vessels glide along its blessed shore; the dense green sacred forest scents the air; over the nameless flowers, huge palms soar; cardamom weeps, the rubber trees perspire The Unfound Isle, announced by fragrances, like courtesans And like vain semblances, when pilots sail too near it vanishes, turning that shade of blue that distance is.

Sussurravano i pioppi del Rio Salto. I cavalli normanni alle lor poste frangean la biada con rumor di croste. Con su la greppia un gomito, da essa era mia madre; e le dicea sommessa: The poplars whispered by the Salto River. The Norman horses, each in its stall, fed on fodder, crunching it like crusty bread.

Beyond them stood the wild mare, who was foaled upon a piney coast, salt-licked and cold; her nostrils carried still that tang of shore, and still her cocked ears heard the ocean roar. This is what she said: The man has left a little boy behind first born of eight who never handled reins. And though your flanks are spurred by hurricanes, heed his small hand.

And heed his childlike speech, though in your heart there lies a barren beach.

The gray mare turned her bony head to see my mother as she spoke so mournfully: I know you loved him, too! He would have died alone there, but for you. E tu capisci, ma non sai ridire. Stava attenta la lunga testa fiera. Ma parlar non sai! Tu non sai, poverina; altri non osa. Ti voglio dire un nome. E tu fa cenno. You brought him back, reins trailing at your feet.

The shot in your ears, in your eyes the flame, along the whispering poplar road, you came. You bore him through the dying of the day so we might hear some last word he might say. In her pain, My mother threw her arms around that mane. O dearest mare, O mare so dapple-gray, you bore him home, the man who went away, who never can come home!

Good though you be, you cannot others dare not speak to me. You saw the killer, yes, you know him well— who is it?

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Give me some signal. God will show you how. The horses were no longer champing meal; asleep, they dreamed the rolling of the wheel. They did not stamp their hooves upon the hay: The editor will select one poem for each poet and provide both the English and the Italian trans- lation thus acting as a bridge between them. In this manner two poets, whose approach to poetry may be quite different, will be conversing through the translator. In he was awarded the Feltrinelli Prize for Italian poetry. His most recent books are the novel Astoria Guernica , winner of the American Book Award in , a collection of poems: What does it matter that this is a desert?

The water is a form of liquidity. The gangsters are my leaders insofar as I am an Italian in America. Desert lakes glitter with pumped cash. In the Biblioteca San Marco I have read manuscript codices. The water climbs the marble stairs in the entrance halls. We used to go to the Bronx just to make our confessions. The Cadillacs would silently turn the corner of Allerton Avenue.

Gangsters in cherrywood coffins would slide into the church. The Island of San Michele in the lagoon is the cemetery. That water eats everything. After a few decades the graves are empty. Venetians one after another have lain in the same graves. In America it is the cities we bury. The money eats them the way water eats corpses.

I laghi del deserto luccicano di denarocontante pompato. Alla Biblioteca San Marco ho letto codici e manoscritti. Alghe appese a ogni pietra delle fondamenta della biblioteca. Albert Anastasia fu assassinato su una sedia da barbiere allo Sheraton. Aveva un fratello prete alla chiesa di Santa Lucia nel Bronx. Noi andavamo nel Bronx solo per confessarci. Gangster incapsulati in bare di ciliegio entravano ed uscivano da quella chiesa. Dopo appena qualche decennio le tombe si svuotano. In theory, the different versions should convey what is known as the kernel meaning, that is, the basic message contained in the original text.

This section of Ital- ian Journal of Translation will test this theory by asking our readers to trans- late a text chosen by the editors, using whatever style or approach they consider best. The submissions will then be printed with the original text. We will try to publish as many entries as possible, space allowing.

For this issue, I selected the following poem by Guido Gozzano. Send your version of this poem and write a paragraph describing your approach. You may submit additional poems or short prose texts that in your estimation pose challenging problems. Sendyour submissions to me or Luigi Bonaffini. Naturalized in , he is the translator of classics of Italian of poetry into English verse, and a poet in his own right. He is the author of collections of verse in English Rind and All, ; The Fifth Season, ; Gente Mia and Other Poems, ; Collected Poems , , in Latin Carmina latina, ; Carmina latina II, , in Italian among others, Il ritorno, , and in his Gargano dialect sixteen titles between and , and of an autobiography in three volumes, La parola difficile , La parola nuova , La parola antica Note on Translation Of the two hundred and more Italian poets I rendered into English, no one posed problems that no translator - so I thought - would ever solve.

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Pulci, Michelangelo, Tasso, and Leopardi seemed at first so untranslatable to me that even the most felicitous approximation would diminish them. Its haunting musicality, in which the subtly shifting dactyls and spondees recreate the magic of the Homeric hex- ameter, is at times so ethereal, so rarefied, so hypnotic as to make the boldest translator utterly afraid of any attempt at a possible rendering of its enchant- ment. One thing is certain: This translation first appeared in Canadian Journal of Italian Studies: Io Fidia, primo, ed Apelle guidai con la mia lira.

Here to the valley mid the airy hills of Bellosguardo, in the quiet shade of countless youthful cypresses, where I have raised to the three Goddesses an altar surrounded by an ever-limpid stream and solemnly watched over as a shrine by fateful laurel trees where through the vine less verdant writhes, O my Canova, come: Sculptor of Deities, along with me maybe so let me hope you will soon breathe a newer life into the Graces hewn out of the marble by your hand. I, too, breathe into phantoms an eternal soul; I loathe the line that sounds yet fails to live, for Phoebus said to me: Splendea tutto quel mar quando sostenne su la conchiglia assise e vezzeggiate dalla Diva le Grazie: Glad, the Ionian waves first welcomed them— the waves that, friendly to the beauteous sand as well as to its hospitable moss, longingly come from Cythera each day to my maternal hills where as a child the deity of Venus I adored.

To the Antenorian shores, last refuge of the household Gods of Troy and of my ancestors, will I commend my song and bones; to thee alone my thought, for with the Graces no one can converse who impiously forsakes his native land. A holy town is Zante. Most beautiful is Zante. British ships pour ample treasures on her; from the sky the timeless sun sheds its most vital rays on her alone while Jove grants lustrous clouds, wonder of olive-groves, and boundless hills teeming with vines: The whole sea shone the very day it held the three fair Graces balanced on a shell and sweetly fondled by the Goddess: Con mezze in mar le rote iva frattanto lambendo il lito la conchiglia, e al lito pur con le braccia la spingean le molli Nettunine.

Ivi per sorte vagolando fuggiasche eran venute le avventurose, e corsero ministre al viaggio di Venere. Thus a most hallowed ritual was born— libating milk out of white-rose-trimmed cups and singing hymns beneath the cypress shade while casting on the holy altar pearls with the first blossom that announces April. No suppliant song nor hymeneal dance but lengthy ululations of wild hounds resounded through the isle, with din of darts and men at fight over the vanquished bear and cries of wounded hunters in between.

In vain had Ceres to those ruthless brutes given her plough; in vain had she, one day, begged from beyond Euphrates Bassareus, a youthful god, to soften the hard rock with gentleness of tendrils. In great ire within its narrow groove the sacred tool was left to rust while tendrils were devoured before their recent bunches stood a chance to ripen purple in the autumn sun. Videro il cocchio e misero un ruggito, palleggiando la clava. Al petto strinse sotto al suo manto accolte, le tremanti sue giovinette, e: Ti sommergi, o selva!

Venere disse, e fu sommersa. Abbellitela or voi, Grazie, che siete presenti a tutto, e Dee tutto sapete. To Cynthia they belonged: Suddenly Iris, who views with Zephyrs in their flight, sat down as charioteer and onward aimed toward the Laconian isthmus. Cythera was not yet queen of the encircling gulf: Seeing the chariot, they wildly roared, wielding their clubs in anger.

Hence a delirious readiness to fight instinctively lies dormant in us all, which, if the pitying Graces curb it not, often rekindles and most wretchedly flaunts as its trophy but fraternal bones. Ah, these may I not see now that in Italy they bleach unburied in the golden wheat. But who, of all the Gods, could ever tame those beast-like humans? And what help had he here on this earth upon the very dawn Venus released her Graces to the World?

High and horrendous is the tale of it, of which a timid echo Fame disclosed to us still groping in our native dark. Embellish it, you Graces who were there, and, being Goddesses, know all things well. When Father Jove distributed the stars among the Gods, he kept the brightest one, gave Cytherea the fairest, and Athena the highest of them all: Ah non ti fossi irato Amor!

Ma quando eri per anche delle Grazie non invido fratello Sparta fioriva. E Amicle terra di fiori non bastava ai serti delle vergini spose; dal paese venian cantando i giovani alle nozze. But with no deity, forlorn and lost the little globe of this our earth lay still with all its children born for war and prey and, after a brief season, doomed to die.

Why did you then yield, Love, to anger? If you still afflict the Graces so, how will you win my heart? To save themselves from all your might, O Love, stark-naked maidens with great toil and sweat hardened their limbs in fighting manliness. And yet, so long as envy failed to force you against the Graces, your own sisters, Sparta flourished in splendor.

Nor could Amyclae, land of wreaths, provide as many buds as there were virgin brides: Also near, Brisea lies, whence the Taygetus heard the loud-exultant clangor of the rites whereby a female chorus, strengthened by the interceding Graces, soothed Lyaeus.

But where, chaste Goddesses, oh, tell me where you saw the primal altar dear to you, so that, if never shall I find its like upon this earth, I may at least feel in me the old religion of its dazzling site. Utterly veiled, proceeding toward the lofty Dorion scanning far Arcadia, my Goddesses reached Thuria: Alpheus withdrew his waves, thus laying at their feet an easy ford that to this very day a pilgrim crosses worshiping in awe — a portent that to all the Greeks revealed the mighty sky: When their hymn ended, Cytherea shone in her unclouded deity: Shunning all human vestiges, and deaf to vulgar poets whose unskillful lyre lures them in vain, through woods they wander still, invisible and silent all of them.

Siate immortali, eternamente belle! The envious Goddess scans the unsown fields and the wide-frozen seas that steersmen shun, and at this very moment maybe treads on arms and banners through the Scythian land and on Italian still unburied braves. Cynthia, whereupon, swore timeless faith to the three Graces from that very day, ever to watch with them over the hearts of candid girls as well as candid lads.

Let the Elysian Fields—should there be need— be your sole friendly haven; ever smile on bards whose laurel wreaths are purely earned, on freedom-minded princes, on young mothers who do not yield their babes to alien breasts, on naive maidens innocently thrust by hidden love on an untimely pyre; and smile on youngsters fallen for their land. Be beautiful, and live for evermore!

In tears they watched her go, and as from high above at them she waved they heard this final message: Harmony heard her come and with her joy moved the entire universe to song, for every time sweet Venus shares the bliss of her abode again, dear Harmony along the starry ways applauds the one whose tender sovereignty reshaped the world. As a young lonesome maiden in her room, watching ecstatic in the spotless sky the splendent Moon and every silent star, feels the inspiring Deity and sits down at her harpsichord which, in her new excitement, with her feet and hands and eyes she fast attunes to the awaiting note; but, if deep in her heart Love comes to rouse remembrances of joy, her fingers run less rapid on the keyboard, causing soon the tender melody that lies concealed right at the vocal bottom of the wood to wander slow and feeble in the air: And ever since men felt within their souls an incantation, all their thoughts shone bright, and every novel thing they heard or saw in beauty grew and most delighted them if but they tried to imitate its awe.

When with the Graces all the fleeting Hours colored with varied lights the countryside, and small birds followed them with carefree sounds of rivulets and forests, mortal eyes began to copy all those happy hues and, while the ocean floor was storm-harassed or agitated by still warring Mars, looking on rills and woods, they could enjoy but painted wings and rustic scenery. Easily Art, which heeded Harmony, made matter elegant: For where you sat the Graces sat with you, and on those features, on that very face such graceful beauty their live breathing left, such gentle feelings with their gentle song did they inspire to her nakedness, instead of your true friend you recognized Venus herself within the marble core.

Impatiently this erring hymn of mine shuns the most gracious minds eager to hear; yet, my fair Sisters, I cannot depart while this my thought dictates much prouder songs. But whither shall I ever follow you if Fate has snatched you from your native Greece, and Italy, your second home, can boast but of your beauty, heedless of your might? Come, Deities, and oh, dear Goddesses, upon the earth cast your maternal tenderness again.

So here in Italy the greatest minds will from Olympus draw their harmony, for, as you cannot give a greater gift, give us, O Graces, but your happy smile. Happier was Urania when the Graces adorned her lengthy peplos with their hands. Mark the beginning of the rite, you lads, and from the garlands on the threshold strewn the uninitiated keep away. No obscene magic here, no wicked praise, no poisoned dart avails: Dear to the Graces is the virgin voice and timid offering: Love promises great bliss, bestows but tears.

Lay on this altar turtle-doves along with roses and three chalices of milk, bright-garlanded; and till the sacred rite invites you to the song, in silence wait: A cieca duce siete seguaci, o miseri! Out of the restless airy strings break forth, like rays of sun by sudden tempest torn, mercy and mirth together: Ah, more than Fortune, still another God abhors sweet peace and fights the innocent.

Hearing her boast, on wings ablaze the God prepares his sudden vengeance: Just as when Eurus with his joyous breath rouses the restless Larius at dawn, and soon the boatman at that murmur sings the nearing lutes rejoice, and languidly the flutes of loving lads and nymphs reply from wandering gondole: Ah voi narrate come aveste quel dono! Oh, tell us how that gift was yours alone. Who else, O Graces, can embellish fame for us, still groping in this earthly dusk; who else but you, who were already there, and, being Goddesses, know all things well?

Once more to see the Graces since their birth bright Dawn had climbed four times the eastern sky: Till Phoebus sang a hymn-repleted song, He phrophesied how bards would take the soul from him, from his glad sisters the sweet lyre from Love the weeping that would lure a gentle spirit to ruth, from young Lyaeus life devoid of cares, from Pallas good advice, and from all Gods the laurel afterwards; but from the Graces would the honey flow, inspiring gracious feelings apt once more to reconcile with Heaven this our earth.

Unreachable to all the Deities, in the last heaven shines a lonely flame which its own fire makes eternal: Now tell, O lads, and you, sweet maidens, tell unto what mortal man, unto what lass the Goddesses most kindly gave, one day, most of that honey. A blind man came first: Eolus fed them with his fire, the Sun adorned them with his spurs and, high above, speeding ahead, an eagle showed the way. The sudden fragrance of that honey sprinkled the nuptial bed of the Eolian girl: Her lyre quavered and her heart leapt up when in a chariot, drawn by sparrows, down came Venus to wipe out her every tear with her ambrosian fingers.

There fate-presaging sorceress Alcina had copiously strewn wild amaranths, and there, along the very stream, a thick forest of laurels veiled much of the sky with its black shadow: No hate of you—a fatal Power brought him back to a princely court and to new tears. Such was the venture of all those ever-gentle, pinioned bees destined to halt their flight upon the Po. Ceres-resembling, in her hands she held vermilion lilies and fresh olive sprouts.

Attonite le Muse come vennero poscia alla divina mole il guardo levando, indarno altrove col memore pensier ivan cercando se altrove Palla,. Full many a verdant spear of wheat burst forth down at her feet while others, not yet ripe, amongst the vying poppies perished soon: In the last heavens Saturn with his planet was in the seventh of his lengthy years when, as forerunner of the Nine, the Handmaid, by Pallas so advised, returned to us bringing the sacred altar where in gold were carved and shone the free and simple laws that made the arts and Athens beautiful.

At the sound scattered by the unseen Graces the living with new hope join in the deed: The Muses, all enrapt, lift now their eyes to the imposing dome and with nostalgic thoughts try to recall if Pallas elsewhere Esso mena la danza. A sacred myrtle tree, which Beatrice from heaven calls her own, was shining there, and from its very top, beating his wings, a wrathful Genius, scanning both past and future, sought abyss and skies and, in the midst of all the seas, a mountain inhabited by souls; then, back on earth, upon the mortals cast he thunderbolts and happy rays, repentance.

Close to that myrtle tree those roses bloomed, which every year on the Euganean hills the Graces pick and weave a wreath thereof to offer, wet with tears, on April sixth, to their own Mother. And yet, despite the orchards and the shade, a tiny dell of youthful oak trees swayed them where, loyal to my Goddesses, the nymphs are not mendacious Genii. From this hill, when through the towers of my lovely Florence the winds are still, I hear a sylvan guest unknown in yonder silent hermitage of nearby Oliveto: Beneath the hill of Fiesole too many maidens dwelt in a fair dell that from six circling mountains like an Achean theater descends.

Mindful of all their callings from above, Africo, carefree rivulet, replied and, forming there the coolest little lake, made the entire little valley bright. Dalla grotta i recessi empie la luna, e fra un mucchio di gigli addormentata svela a un Fauno confusa una Napea.

Or vive un libro dettato dagli Dei; ma sfortunata la damigella che mai tocchi il libro! Away he chased the turtle-doves that watched on full-spread wings the entrance to a cave: By that example spurred, the daring lad hoped to ensnare Fiammetta, and invoked as many white-haired Satyrs as he knew with all the envious nymphs until then banned from all that playing, all that mystery; witty and shrewd and idle, every night to Dioneo they recounted tales of fun and caves and nuptial beds of blooms. Dictated by the Gods, a book still lives, but hapless is the lass that touches it: With her own hand the lovely lady wets the milky calyxes of lemon buds, shy violets, and thyme, to bees so dear; as balm of dew she begs from peaceful stars and consecrates new honeycombs to you, deep in her heart she sighes a silent prayer.

Con lei pregate, donzellette, e meco voi, garzoni, miratela. A lei correte, e di soavi affetti ispiratrici e immagini leggiadre sentirete le Grazie. Ah vi rimembri che inverecondo le spaventa Amore! Her secret sigh, the smile upon her lips, the tranquil flame exulting in her eyes should tell you what she prays for, and how fast the Goddesses listen to her. Surely she begs the Three to help her do their lovely will on earth. The worth that Heaven, sorry for mankind, bestows on the chaste virgins from the sky will never fall on you, O artisans and youthful bards of futile elegance, but only on the gentlest lady eager to imitate them.

Therefore, run to her, and you will sense the Graces as they breathe feelings of love and images of grace. The wizards and the vampires have forged an alliance based on blood and magic, hoping to turn the tide of the war against the dark wizards. But they find that desperation may be the key to forming a covenant that works: But when he arrives, he finds himself distracted by Adenet Silaire, the pack shaman. For Jean and Orlando, this is wonderful news—but it only convinces Thierry how much Sebastien is missing out on because they cannot form an Aveu de Sang.

All his life, wizard Raphael Tarayaud has dreamed of a vampire—first as a friend, then as a lover. His search for his missing soul mate brings him to the attention of Sebastien Noyer, one of his childhood heroes. While Sebastien isn't his soul mate, he could be the perfect partner for Raphael's best friend Kylian Raffier.

As strange coincidences mount up, Raphael offers his research expertise to try and help Kylian and Sebastien understand what is happening to them, though the more he learns, the less he likes it. When he finally meets Jean Bellaiche, former chef de la Cour and grieving widower, the meeting is disastrous, but Raphael can't let it go. A year after the end of the war that brought them together, Raymond Payet and Jean Bellaiche have found a balance in their relationship: The foundation of an institute to research and educate wizards and vampires about the implications of the partnership bonds only adds to those responsibilities.

But the battle for public opinion rages on. Now he has to hope Martin will be willing to stay. The war is at a fever pitch with both sides stretched to the limit, when the dark wizards score a shocking victory and capture Orlando St. Knowing the Alliance teeters on the brink, Christophe Lombard, the oldest, most powerful vampire in Paris leaves his self-imposed seclusion to join the fight. Will their actions lead to the shattering of the Alliance or the salvation of the world?

All his life Benicio Quispe has dreamed of being a guide on the Inca Trail. He gets his chance when the top travel agency in Cusco, Peru hires him. Alberto Salazar, his assigned mentor, fits Benicio's idea of a perfect guide, but he's also everything Benicio never dared to dream of in a boyfriend. Alberto learned a long time ago to be discreet about his sexuality.

It's a necessary sacrifice to keep the respect of the guides and porters whose help is critical in a successful hike.

So he pushes aside his attraction to his new junior guide and goes on as usual. But when a group of old friends arrives to hike the trail again, they convince him a relationship with Benicio is worth pursuing. His newfound resolve is enough to get them on a first date, but no amount of courage can change the attitudes of their family and friends. The risks on the trail are easy compared to finding a path through the challenges keeping them apart. La secuela de "Heredar el cielo" Volumen 2 de la serie Lang Downs.

Jesse va de rancho en rancho y no busca nunca nada permanente. Clair, ma altri molto meno e, nonostante i fini comuni, sono fonte di discussioni, risentimenti e litigi tra alleati. Il ventenne Chris Simms riesce a malapena a mantenersi a galla. Dopo aver perso la madre e la casa, si trova a dover provvedere da solo a se stesso e al fratello minore.

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