Il Vuoto e la Materia, ovvero io - delirio di una diciassettenne (Italian Edition)

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Fatemelo sapere con un commento o una mail a 88migliasoniche gmail. A gran voce urlano: Glielo ha rubato JonTron? Dannati ladri relativisti Salviniani! Freddy non faceva parte della Justice League? Se non riesce a proteggere neanche se stesso che cosa lo paghiamo a fare? Ah, per rispondere alla vostra domanda:. Romics con Davide Stremis, cosplay che ho dovuto portare alla quella fiera, viaggio in Polonia, etc… Cosa ho fatto in Polonia? I locali, dopo la sonora batosta e le diverse scudisciate date al rosa fondoschiena del mio avversario, hanno trasformato quel draghetto nella loro mascotte, lasciando a me il corpo stremato del drago come ricordo delle mie assurde gesta accompagnato da una piccola statuetta che ho deciso di regalare al caro sopracitato Stremis.

Prima che i vostri bambini, leggendo del povero drago assassino seriale che ho sconfitto, si mettano a piangere, tranquillizzateli! Inoltre visto il mio odio viscerale per i Furby e per qualunque altro giocattolo goda di vita propria, i suoi peccati, per me, equivalgono a legittima difesa. Data la mia estasiante vittoria, gli ho proposto di fuggire con me e di ingannare tutta Cracovia allo stesso tempo. Ho pensato a lungo a quale fosse il modo migliore per esordire dopo un buco di due settimane.

Oppure una bella recensione di un film o di un gioco che ho visionato di recente? E se provassi a fondere tre aneddoti con elementi in comune vissuti da me di recente in una storia unica e raccontarla come fosse un racconto breve? Le strade che mi sono lasciato alle spalle e quelle del futuro! Non ho i soldi per pagare il copyright delle miglia orarie! Ogni volta che mi ritrovo in un autobus pieno, mi autoconvinco di essere stato messo per sbaglio su un carro bestiame. Mi tornano in mente, in questi frangenti, le immagini quasi fantozziane delle riviste che trovo spesso in edicola.

Pullman ripieni come dei tacchini ben cotti e persone sedute comodamente in cima alla vettura che sorridono. Mani tese in ogni direzione e posizione possibile ed immaginabile…e i piedi? A Roma ogni tre secondi una persona, donna o uomo che sia, viene palpata da un completo sconosciuto. Che dire di coloro che sono gli attori principali dello sciopero? Nessuna informazione sul motivo dello sciopero e neanche un minimo di organizzazione e riorganizzazione che possa far funzionare uno strumento importante come la protesta.

Queste sono le parole che rimbombano ogni volta che ci sono dei ritardi con i mezzi. Di recente si sono intensificati. A dire il vero, non ne ho idea. Inutile dire che dovetti usare di nuovo i mezzi, i dannatissimi mezzi, per arrivare alla festa. Pessimo preludio, protrazione peggiore. Avrei dovuto capirlo, sarei dovuto rimaner a casa, tranquillo ad aggiornarmi con delle nuove serie televisive o a trastullarmi con qualche gioco vetusto.

In genere preferisco ignorarmi, aspettare che io stesso finisca di parlare o mettermi da solo il silenzioso per evitare di ascoltarmi. Un altro segno che lasciava presagire la piega nefasta che avrebbe preso quella serata. Un segnale che avrei dovuto vedere, comprendere e di cui avrei dovuto seguire il consiglio.

Salito a bordo mi sedetti rilassando ogni muscolo arrivando quasi ad appisolarmi sul sedile. Quel verde con cui tingono gli interni dei tram romani ha un qualcosa di ipnotico: Secondo me era daltonico, privo di fantasia oppure adorava segretamente il satanico lord Grinch. Il segnale venne seguito da un corrispettivo verbale. Una frase pronunciata da una delle docili e gentili vecchiette che ho prima descritto. Guardandole con attenzione notai subito le loro differenze fisiche. Notai dopo quelle parole che entrambe le signore indossavano vestiti larghi a pois bianchi su sfondo blu che si concludevano ad altezza ginocchia con un paio di ampie gonne anni Qui ci terrei a precisare un dettaglio.

Ancora non riesco a capacitarmene…. Si facciano i cazzi loro! Che begli insegnamenti che gli anziani passano ai pargoli e ai pargoli dei propri pargoli. Mi ponevo ogni tipo di domanda, ogni tipo di quesito che potesse far luce su questa faccenda. Un fiume di pensieri in piena che, senza alcun freno, invade la mia testa. Ebbene, non dovetti aspettare a lungo per quel momento. Questi momenti sono sempre puntuali. Se ne andava in giro con un grosso impermeabile e un cappello che copriva gran parte del suo corpo.

Forse era in incognito, forse le parole che urlava erano password per incontrare o forse era solo un povero uomo impazzito a causa di problemi personali. Il volume non era un problema per lui, questo era ovvio. A queste parole qualcosa nel tram rispose. Attesi ancora uno, due, tre, cinque, dieci minuti…ma niente, eravamo bloccati.

A questo punto cercai di scendere per vedere a che punto del tragitto fossi arrivato. Prima che potessi arrivare alla rampa, la voce riprese a pieni polmoni. Non avevo tempo per questo e prima che potesse arrivare troppo vicino, mi defilai senza problemi. Le porte si chiusero di schianto lasciando il mio inseguitore a mani vuote. Il traffico era del tutto congestionato. Cominciai a correre a perdifiato per non perdere altro tempo. Ebbi a malapena il tempo per sentire delle ragazze per strada urlare sentenze e bestemmie. Non riesco a correre molto in fretta a quanto pare.

Dimenticavo di dire che quelle ragazza circa due secondi dopo fece uscire una bestemmia degna di lode e sdegno allo stesso tempo dalla bocca. Non avevo tempo per ascoltare oltre. Alla fine riuscii a raggiungere la vettura in testa e a salirci. Urlava con voce acutissima frasi di cui purtroppo ho poco ricordo, un monologo unico di cui ho pochi frammenti ma che nella sua perduta completezza, mi fecero gelare il sangue per il paio di fermate che dovetti condividere con questo strano individuo. Tutti noi siamo perennemente diciottenni!

Anche io lo sono! A dire il vero sarebbero se hai la fortuna di compierli durante un anno bisestile! Il suo sguardo perso nel nulla mi fece pensare che effettivamente lui stesse discutendo con qualcuno tramite un auricolare. Un ultimo uomo comincio non a piangere, non a parlare…ma a ridere.

Niente lo fermava, come fosse sotto gas esilarante. Aveva visto un video divertente? Fatemelo sapere con un commento qua sotto oppure con una mail a 88migliasoniche gmail.

Due aneddoti nel giro di un mese non sono una vera e propria prelibatezza? Per mancanza di tempo procurata da questo truffaldino inconveniente e anche per la mia elevata nostalgia per gli articoli sugli aneddoti di vita vissuta dai miei carissimi stuntmen empirici, ho deciso di lasciar stare le recensioni per questa volta. Sapete chi altri adorava i piccoli dettagli che rendevano situazioni apparentemente normali, straordinarie? Leggete i romanzi di Doyle per crederci.

Ma bando alle ciance e partiamo con il succoso racconto. Credo fosse ormai settembre, circa qualche anno fa, il periodo in cui accadde il fattaccio. Tanti ricordi si legano a quegli strani nove mesi. Ma torniamo a noi. Non mancava neanche, ora che ci penso, di borbottare a mezza bocca, qualche strana preoccupante parola che dimostrava ulteriormente la sua inconsueta ansia. Quella mole di sentimenti di certo non le giovava. Vedevo attraverso i suoi occhialoni spessi, rughe in via di formazione che parevano farla invecchiare precocemente. Da quando avete cambiato colf? Inoltre che fine ha fatto la precedente?

Quindi le ha volute marcare in modo che toccandole rimanesse sulle mani del malandrino una tintura bluastra. Mi pare di aver capito che sia in ritardo. Era la suoneria di un telefono. Ne aprofittai per dirigermi in soggiorno e sedermi sul divano per guardare la televisione. Sarebbe quasi come avere sempre a disposizione uno stereo a volume massimo. Intanto riuscivo a carpire giusto qualche frase, da cui capii solo che la nuova colf aveva avuto dei problemi ad arrivare.

Mi chiesi quale razza di problema poteva aver avuto, visto che i miei nonni non vivono certo da eremiti sulla cima di una montagna in completa solitudine! A sciogliere questo enigma ci penso nuovamente la padrona di casa. Ahahahah - ho dovuto aspettare qualche minuto per potermi calmare del tutto. In ogni caso pagherei per far accompagnare queste signorine da una persona che possa dire loro, ad ogni domanda del genere, ad alto volume:. Sarebbe una soddisfazione indescrivibile. La colf, Peter Griffin, la coppietta tedesca, Homer Simpson…tutti trentenni e tutti in certi frangenti, degli idioti totali.

Vivrete nel assieme a Philip J. Vi sentirete decisamente a casa con lui. Capita fin troppo spesso, specie di questi tempi, che qualche titolo di rilievo, a causa di un cattivo marketing o di concorrenti assai spietati, non riesca a ottenere il riconoscimento che si sarebbe meritato. Nel mio caso, credo sia arrivato il momendo di parlare di un titolo che ho conosciuto per vie traverse e che sono riuscito a giocare da cima a fondo grazie al servizio Plus presente su Ps3.

Ne valeva la pena? Esatto, Sleeping Dogs , un gioco poco conosciuto e che ha avuto una storia prenatale davvero travagliata. Dissotterare cadaveri nel deserto del Nevada da buoni risultati alla vostra vita sessuale? Scopritelo con me e cominciamo a parlare della trama. Parlando invece della ciccia gameplayosa di Sleeping Dogs, non posso che citare in primis i combattimenti. Quindi quale modo migliore per omaggiare la Cina di usare il kung fu come arma primaria e primaria difesa?

Se non altro bisogna ammettere che si tratta di una piacevole aggiunta per un gioco alla Grand Theft Auto. Parlando proprio delle missioni, non posso che essere felice della mole di compiti in cui ci potremo buttare a capofitto in questo gioco. Missioni principali relative alla storia, corse di automobili, infiltrazioni quasi stealth, contratti di assassinio: Se vi ricordate nei vari Grand Theft Auto specialmente a partire da San Andreas se non erro era possibile avere relazioni con determinati personaggi in determinate missioni.

Si tratta di un titolo piacevole alla vista ma palesemente indietro di svariati anni graficamente parlando. Un peccato…ma la necrofilia di Square Enix doveva presentare delle ripercussioni. Quindi, in definitiva, cosa ne penso di Sleeping Dogs? Quindi, se non lo avete ancora giocato, affrettatevi! Lo troverete ormai a bassissimo prezzo e per quello che vale, ci avrete comunque guadagnato. Scrivete commenti o mail a 88migliasoniche gmail. A qualcuno mancavano i miei succosi aneddoti?

A me personalmente si! Quei racconti che possono essere paragonati a veri propri miti e leggende contemportanee? Saranno delle bellissime spero storie da raccontare attorno ad un fuoco acceso, ardente e addolcito dai marshmallow colati dai nostri bastoni appuntiti mentre si cena in campeggio. Qualche anno fa, durante una delle mie famose peregrinazioni artistiche, mi sono trovato a far parte di una piccola accademia di teatro. Piuttosto minuta direi ma, come direbbero gli agenti immobiliari: Fancazzisti, belle ragazze, future fetish doll, omosessuali latenti erano solo alcuni dei vari esempi di persone che si trovavano in questo inconsueto gruppo.

Mi limitai ad annuire e a scambiare un leggero sguardo di intesa. Purtroppo mi sono dovuto affidare alla scarsa memoria. Io voglio proprio fare il…attore. Sono anni che mi esercito e sono pure molto bravo e modesto, avrei aggiunto io. Ho provato persino ad andare in varie accademie di…di teatro e ho scoperto una cosa…. Ma che siamo matti? Pagare per fare teatro, che cavolata! Inutile dire che tutta la combriccola, che ascoltava estasiata la scena, si stava a stento trattenendo la pancia dal ridere. Tuttavia…il meglio doveva ancora arrivare, la tipica mazzata finale era imminente.

Queste per noi sono state le famose parole magiche. Tuttavia se la vicenda fosse accaduta nel mio mondo ideale, saremmo probabilmente tutti usciti, lasciando Mario dentro la stanza, e avremmo corso qualche kilometro su un bel prato fiorito per poi, infine, accasciarci sull'erba a sfogarci ridendo per qualche ora di fila. In ogni caso fatemelo sapere con un commento o una mail a 88migliasoniche gmail. Quel tipo di evento che sconvolge in maniera inarrestabile tutta l'intera industria. Sto parlando dell'opera prima di una software house chiamata Dontnod Entertainment , azienda francofona fondata relativamente di recente e che ha debuttato nell'industria nel Esatto, stavo parlando proprio di Remember Me , uno stano gioco, un incrocio di vari generi che molti non hanno nemmeno voluto provare ma che io ho trovato abbastanza degno di nota tanto da volerci scrivere una recensione dettagliata.

Oppure un gioco che meritava l'oscuro oblio? Quanti giochi prima di Remember Me si erano occupati delle memorie, dei ricordi e del subconscio? Tra quelli giocati da me ricordo gli ottimi e purtroppo dimenticati Another Code link per la recensione e il pluripremiato To The Moon. In questo mondo noi vestiremo i panni di Nilin, un'abilissima agente del movimento Errorista gli oppositori dell'impero di Memorize che, dopo essere stata catturata e imprigionata nella Bastiglia prigione di massima sicurezza di Neo Paris…gran battuta vero?

Come avrete capito, nella descrizione della trama, mi fermo qui per evitare i consueti spoilers. Sappiate solo che lo svolgimento della trama possiede dei risvolti interessanti pochi ma buoni ma allo stesso tempo possiede uno stile di scrittura e sceneggiatura fin troppo prevedibile io ho capito il finale dopo qualche ora di gioco.

Comprimari interessanti e ricorrenti saranno pochi. Purtroppo in questo reparto non vedo particolari eccellenze, e me ne dispiaccio. Che dire invece della ciccia del gioco? Cosa potrebbe rovinare una buona fase platform alla Uncharted? Le piattaforme sono segnalate. Qualcuno potrebbe trovarlo ottimo design, ma io sono di un'altra scuola. Quindi, in definitiva, le sezioni platform sono troppo semplici e guidate…un peccato. Parliamo ora dei combattimenti, altra parte preponderante del gameplay.

Queste sezioni, manco a dirlo, sono praticamente, quasi, copia-incollate dalla famosa serie di Batman Arkham. Si tratta letteralmente di mattoncini da utilizzare per riempire una serie di combo standard. In poche parole, durante la storia sbloccheremo delle combo 4 o 5 in tutto che potremo riempire con sensen di differente effetto principalmente ci sono quelli che danneggiano, quelli che ricaricano la vita, quelli che ricaricano gli attacchi speciali etc.

Ottimi al contrario i boss, tutti diversi da sconfiggere e dannatamente soddisfacenti da battere. Ottimo lavoro sotto questo punto di vista! Cambiando o rubando i ricordi ai propri nemici. Posso dire, in maniera totalmente disinteressata, che ho adorato alla follia questa meccanica e purtroppo sono rimasto scontento dalla sua poca presenza nel gioco remixeremo ricordi al massimo. Parliamo infine della grafica e della colonna sonora.

In genere hanno fatto un buon lavoro. In definitiva, cosa ne penso di Remember Me? Buona Ost, ottima ambientazione, trama banalotta, personaggi piatti, meccanica interessanti mescolate ad altre poco origiali. Io vi consiglio di darci un'occhiata, lo troverete ormai a 10 euro di sicuro. Per quel prezzo, ne vale decisamente la pena.

Rispondete con un commentino qui sotto o con una mail a 88migliasoniche gmail. Tornando per un attimo seri, oggi vorrei continuare a parlare di cinema, di un adattamento cinematografico di un altro libro che ha fatto parecchio scalpore. Qualcuno ha addirittura dichiarato solennemente che in codesto romanzo venga distrutto il femminismo estremo! Non poteva quindi mancare una versione cinematografica di tale opera. Per questo adattamento sono stati riuniti il nostro belloccio, barbuto glabro per l'occasione signor Ben Affleck, una grande Rosamund Pike e il mitico David Fincher dietro la camera da presa.

Prima di cominciare vi lascio con uno stralcio del monologo iniziale del personaggio interpretato da Ben Affleck: Quando penso a mia moglie, penso sempre alla sua testa. Immagino di aprirle quel cranio perfetto e srotolarle il cervello in cerca di risposte alle domande principali di ogni matrimonio.

Si sa che noi italiani dobbiamo, per contratto all'anagrafe, rovinare ogni dannato titolo di pellicole estere…vi posso ricordare di Vertigo? Dannati colpi di scena mancati…. Il giorno del quinto anniversario del loro matrimonio, Amy scompare nel nulla. Vari indizi come macchie di sangue o la possibile arma del delitto piena di impronte indicheranno Nick come sospettato numero uno.

Parrebbe che il marito sia il killer ideale. Forse uccisa in un raptus? Ad ogni modo per quanto riguarda la trama, preferisco non procedere oltre, vi voglio proteggere dagli spoilers. Parlando di personaggi e interpreti, invece, non posso che lodare la Pike nei panni di Amy Elliott. Riguardo Ben Affleck…bisogna fare un discorso particolare. Che strana situazione…abbiamo un bambolotto che interpreta un pesce lesso. Per il resto ho apprezzato tutto il cast di comprimari nel film in effetti pochi hanno un peso vero e determinante sullo svolgersi della trama e in particolar modo la comparsata di un attore che adoro: Barney Stinson in poche parole.

Nonostante il poco tempo in scena e il pessimo finale che Fincher gli ha riservato sono rimasto colpito da questo suo piccolo e disturbante cameo. Parliamo ora brevemente dei temi trattati. In questo film ne abbiamo la dimostrazione. Concludiamo con una nota letteralmente assai positiva: Per quanto abbia capito, a curare la colonna sonora sono stati chiamati Trent Reznor cantante e famosissimo frontman dei Nine Inch Nails e Atticus Ross musicista e produttore britannico anch'esso piuttosto noto nell'ambiente. Non ve ne pentirete. Detto questo passiamo alle considerazioni generali.

Inviate il vostro parere nei commenti oppure alla solita mail 88migliasoniche gmail. Vi sono mancate le TopTracks, vero? Quel tipo di post dove parlo con gran dettaglio e soddisfazione delle tracce migliori di una colonna sonora di un gioco o di qualunque altra opera e dei sentimenti che queste mi scatiruscono. Il tutto senza dimenticare dettagli come l'accostamento musica-situazione immagini e testo che verranno mostrate in contemporanea. Adoro questo tipo di articoli! Li adoro anche se ci impiego in media il doppio del tempo di una recensione!

Oggi vorrei concludere una mia personale trilogia, quella di Ace Attorney, parlando finalmente di Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney - Trials and Tribulations! Lo so, lo so…starete per dirmi che esistono altri giochi della saga usciti dopo la prima trilogia. Se possibile, vi vorrei invitare a mandarmi le vostre classifiche via commento o via mail a 88migliasoniche gmail. Luke appare per la prima ed ultima volta nell'unico caso a non contenere solo un processo per omicidio!

La sua track per certi versi rappresenta al meglio questo buffo e ombroso personaggio. Sempre in cerca di qualcuno che lo possa lodare, sempre in cerca di attenzioni. Trials And Tribulations - Prologue. Si, per la prima volta in tutta la trilogia metto in classifica un prologo, ovvero la track di apertura per l'intero gioco. Tanta suspence, colpi di scena in appena un minuto e mezzo anticipazioni di cose che verranno fatte come viaggi nel tempo…non come Apollo Justice ed un capovolgimento dei ruoli che pochi capitoli della saga si sognano.

Un prologo che ci lascia spiazzati, confusi ma incuriositi per scoprire dove voglia andare a parare il gioco stesso. Tutto questo grazie ad una sapiente combinazioni di testi, immagini e musica. Trials And Tribulations - Court Begins. Cross Examination - Allegro Altra traccia super parlata. Furio Tigre - Swinging The Tiger. Un furbastro, una tigre oppure un codardo? Non sta a me decidere. Mi basta sapere che Swinging The Tiger sia una track intimidatoria la gente si nasconde sotto il banco quando Furio arriva in tribunale e ringhia sia fottutamente divertente e giocosa.

Uno spartito che sembra pronto per essere trasformato in musica Jazz. Tell the Truth Di nuovo il pursuit! Di nuovo non sullo sfavillante podio! Sogno o son desto? Un tempietto sperduto tra le montagne perennemente innevate, un luogo dove le medium vanno ad esercitarsi con prove stremanti e bizzarre, un luogo isolato che sarebbe perfetto per un omicidio. Dahlia Hawthorne - Distant Traces of Beauty. Personalmente ogni volta che la ascolto rimango inondato dalla miriade di sentimenti scaturiti dall'ascolto.

I Vendicatori - l’Era di Borghezio

Godot - The Fragrance of Dark Coffee. Servirebbe a qualcosa descrivere il mio amore? Reminiscence - The Bitter Taste of Truth. Detto questo credo di aver finito ormai la mia disamina delle migliori tracce di Phoenix Wright Ace Attorney Trials and Tribulations. Sono curioso di vedere cosa mi risponderete. Godetevi l'ascolto di tutta la Ost…merita davvero…. Come potrei mollare d'un tratto le mie vere radici! Con un'altra cultura rivale per giunta! Posso tenere il piede in due scarpe? Che serie di sentimenti indescrivibili…che ansia terribile mi aleggia addosso!

Le mie scelte continuano a scavare un buco nero alle mie spalle. Semplice, sono frasi che aiuteranno voi e me ad immedesimarci con il protagonista del gioco di cui oggi devo trattare oggi. Piuttosto melodrammatica come introduzione, nevvero? Stavolta ho voluto sperimentare un monologo interiore, spero abbiate gradito.

Oggi vi parlo di un gioco creato da un singolo sviluppatore, tale Dave Gilbert da non confondersi con Ron Gilbert, creatore assieme ad altri della saga di Monkey Island. Un'esperienza in cui impersonerete un uomo in bilico tra i suoi vecchi principi e quelli nuovi che non riesce ad accettare.

Quindi possiamo considerare The Shivah come il lavoro, il duro lavoro di uno sviluppatore solitario. Ma basta con i convenevoli e cominciamo a parlare della trama. In questo gioco impersoneremo il rabbino Russell Stone, un uomo sull'orlo di una crisi morale. La cosa dovrebbe interessarci?

Scopriremo i misteriosi traffici in cui Mr Lauder si era intromesso. Forse ha scoperto troppo? Gli hanno messo un sicario alle calcagna? Sta a noi aiutare il nostro protagonista a scoprirlo. Parliamo quindi della vera ciccia del gioco: Se vi piace il genere, ci andrete senz'altro a nozze. In all of these exchanges, losses and gains. I went to see American movies, and they were no longer dubbed.

Although this might seem a gain, I perceived it as a loss. I could no longer lose myself in a movie. And I was also expected to read American and English books in the original, a long time- consuming process. What an innocent I had been abroad in my own coun- try. I had watched American movies dubbed in Italian and had asked no questions, seen no discrepancies. I never no- ticed how the lips moved. Or whether the gestures did not go with the words. What if cowboys spoke in long musical sentences instead of mono- syllables? I had never heard a cowboy speak English, neither in real life nor in a movie.

How was I supposed to know that certain taciturn, reticent types went with certain landscapes? When I came to the States and told my new friends about this wonderful western I had seen, which starred Alan Ladd against the background of gorgeous mountain peaks, and they said, Shane, I did not recognize the title. In this case too, I had not been much aware of the translation, neither of the movie nor of the title.

Still, the amazing thing is that the story, and in the case of Shane, the nobil- ity of the character and the strong theme came across despite the differ- ences. I had the same experience discussing the movie Julius Caesar, which I had seen in Italian. The famous speeches and the key scenes had all come across. The mediums in this famously well-acted and produced movie had been the drama, the pictures, the force of the personalities brought to the screen by the actors, with the language, even in Italian, acquiring authority from them, aside from what the translator had been able to do, which I was not in a position to judge.

I was then the person for which translation is meant. Perhaps this is a commonplace which we sometimes forget. But, then, how could they? English has great synthetic power, and Shakespeare is master of syntactic conci- sion, a great inventor of verbs; while the forte of Italian is the strong phrase, the musical phrase.

When I was growing up I never considered translation as one version of the original. I had no idea what the differences between the two might be, the different approaches and complementary results, or that different versions might be needed for different purposes. Despite a spoken ver- nacular that deviated in major ways from Italian, which was in fact an- other language; despite the study of Latin and French, I took translations into Italian for granted just as the natives of any place take their language and mores for granted --as the only way something is said and done.

Translation, in this frame of reference, is seen as the same piece of writing with the very same words but in a different lan- guage. I did not entertain the idea that translators have to interpret what they read, and may interpret the same passage differently, or that if a word is ambiguous in one language, the same word might not be in another lan- guage.

Dante chose to write his epic-length poem in the spoken tongue rather than in Latin, the literary language. And he consciously forged a national language out of his own Tuscan dialect. A language all writers had to sub- sequently learn, regardless of their mother tongue. Alessandro Manzoni, who is given credit for developing the historical novel in the nineteenth century, and for enriching the language of prose, was a northern Italian who started with the language he had learned in school and then, he said, went to Tuscany to rinse it in the waters of the Arno.

Translators not only have ways of reading first level of interpreta- tion ; they have ways of re-creating through their choices second level of interpretation character and literary persona, diction and syntax, rhythm and sound, tone. Sometimes they have to invent what their own language does not have to come out with an equivalent.

The original and the translation are both translations, and as such, approximations. Authors translate what they see and feel, the experi- ence of life into the experience of words, structures made of words, choos- ing out of huge vocabularies, and they may be more or less successful, more or less satisfied. Regardless of how it was, how many versions this version went through, it is now fixed and the words are all a reader has. He has to try to imagine what the author saw or felt, and it is only when he has a view, that he can re-create the physical and emotional land- scapes. A translator has access to the original.

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

They had to contend with archaic versions of English, while I read contemporary Italian translations. The strangeness I had encountered had to do with content, with elliptical political and social references rather than with terms and phrases that had become obsolete. The picaresque journey that is translation has continued throughout my life. Not only because learning involves translation; I have been profes- sionally involved with translation for many years, in my work, and as a poet. When I was still in college, I was asked by the poet Sam Hazo, who was one of my English professors at Duquesne University, to translate a few poems of Quasimodo.

I did, and that started me on my way, publish- ing them in Choice, a poetry journal edited by John Logan. But that was the beginning and the end for many years. I had no time write or translate when my kids were little. But when I started working, still part-time and at a research job in anthropology with a flexible schedule, my languages came into play again. I read and translated from ethnogra- phies, some of whom were in French, Italian and Spanish. I have since rendered into English hundreds of individual poems, and I have col- lected some of my translations of modern Italian poets in three books: I always translated from Italian into English.

Not that the language of poetry has much to do with the spoken tongue. Still, the point is valid. Also true that I always write in English, think in English, and have done so for decades, and that I seldom have much chance to speak Italian. Thus, the challenge of reading, digging, understand- ing, of discovering another persona, of hearing another voice is missing, and this, which should make things easier, make them go faster, slows ev- erything down instead. But I am doing it.

I Vendicatori - l’Era di Borghezio

Translating by the Numbers by John DuVal I was raised in the faith and discipline of the New Criticism, scruti- nizing, dissecting, and reassembling that exquisite monument, the poem itself. This approach was useful because it taught us to learn from the mas- ters, how they packed the maximum meaning into every word despite the requirements of meter or rhyme.

It was also useful in that we learned to cherish the words of the great craftspeople of our language. Where it failed, I believe, is in not paying due respect to the language itself and the infinite choices it offers of saying almost the same thing, with infinite slight and delightful variations and always a hint that a phrase could be better phrased.

For us translators the New Critical approach is still useful in that it encourages us to study each word and each phrase of an original to learn what the original writer has done to make it so wonderfully what it is. The problem is that it directs us straight to the Slough of Despond, where we stay, sunk and moping unless Faith in the language we are translating into pulls us out. We will not find in English the phrase that G. Belli, for instance, wrote in Romanesco, the dialect of the people of Rome, but given how slowly our minds work and how vast our language is, we can always discover another phrase like it, and then another, and if we keep looking, we may find a better one than the ones we found before.

I had thought the following translation of a poem by Trilussa, another Romanesco poet, was finally and after much struggle finished when I had this down on paper: To Mimi Do you remember our first rendezvous behind the Convent House, alone together in the cloister? Here Carlo kissed Mimi. I saw you once more, just as you had been, wearing a pretty lilac dress. Fui io che scrissi: I wrote, Twelve February, nineteen hundred. Here Charley kissed Mary.

I think it might have been the chance of rhyming Mary whimsically with a Romanesco word in the original, jeri yesterday , which first inclined me toward the English names. Also I was fascinated by how, in this poem about the passage of time, the poet had handled words that marked off time: What difference did the month make when everybody knows that given the right weather in Rome, the noonday sun can glitter as brightly in February as in May?

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

Now, I thought the translation was finished, and I submitted it, just as it appears at the beginning of this article, in a volume of translations from Trilussa for the University of Arkansas Press. One of the outside readers for the University of Arkansas Press, how- ever, going over the manuscript before its publication, did not think the translation of the last line was finished: This is one of those few instances in English where what everybody says is an error and what is correct is pedantic.

Paul could have been in love with Rosa in or or even in What difference does it make? I could translate by the numbers. Vistas of alternate endings opened before me. To be systematic, I began with I had scored with my first shot. The grammar was correct with- out being pompous, the rhyme was perfect, and the line meant pretty much the same as the original: I read the English to myself aloud. The present perfect tense seemed to imply that if only Paul pulled himself together, and did something, he might still come out all right.

Paul was a dead person; I was making him sound like a failure in the business world. I changed the tense. The problem was more than the tense; it was also the too active rhyming verb, done. And do would not do when I got to Carlo could address his fellow lover across the centu- ries instead of merely meditating on his fate. This was more comic than the Romanesco, but not as kind. In the original, the emotion goes outward; self pity blossoms into sym- pathy. By ending in you rather than me, Carlo seems to be taking not only consolation, but satisfaction in knowing that someone is worse off than he is.

Translating a little closer to the origi- nal might help: But there were more numbers. I might try three again, varying the last line: What am I feeling sorry for myself for? For some reason I was fond of this solution anyway. Maybe the technical flaws gave it a kind of humor in accord with the sardonic Romanesco, but nobody that I showed it to liked it. The even makes perfect sense: But at the end of the sentence, when the sentence could have ended perfectly well without it, even sounds as if the translator stuck it there simply for the rhyme, which he did.

Other abstract words, such as predicament or situa- tion or of course state either bring on other associations in conflict with the original or are too vague. It is late in the poem to be introducing an Arkansas accent, rhym- ing been with ten. Also, it evokes the metaphysical question of whether Paul, having died, is now experiencing Purgatory or worse, a question that has no place in this poem. I wrote more, with rhymes for fourteen, fifteen, sixteen There must be better endings, but mine get worse. But did my language sound conversational enough throughout the poem?

Ma io ero innamorato del Provenzale. Il punto interrogativo era comunque questo: Io sono passato attraverso questi cicli, e ne scrissi. Le lingue di queste poesie sono state esplorate, controllate e comparate prima di essere state tradotte Poesia provenzale in dialetto molisano e lingua.

Cosmo Iannone Editore, Isernia La similitudine allegorica mi risporta al traduttore-esegeta. Vedi anche Annalisa Buonocore. Dialettali e Neo dialettali in Inglese. Prefazione di Cosma Siani. Edizioni Cofine, Roma, Born in in Santarcangelo di Romagna, Raffaello Baldini pub- lished six poetry collections, all written in the romagnolo dialect of Italian: Intercity, was published by Einaudi in Baldini wrote three theatrical mono- logues: Carta canta, Zitti tutti! There are no further allegorical, liturgical or philosophical significances to this con-credendo, with prefix?

They do not accompany him up onto the stage to confront the huckster-performer wearing the shabby jacket? After fleeing the lower levels of the theater that has flooded with water, the narrator climbs flight-of-stairs after flight-of-stairs, opens door after door, and meets a card-reader with cards all laid out on a table; is this card-reader a man or a woman? The translator wants to get this exactly right. How can I explain it? He was in great pain. Each word cost him.

Not a small plate. Not a huge plate. Is this an evocation of a particular line of po- etry? The verb tenses must be changed: His most recent collection was awarded the Campana Prize. Solitude, Outsider, Small Talk. Each poem moves towards and resists Death. His narrators also wander into anacoluthon, that is to say ending a sentence with a different structure from that with which it began. His poems employ the rhetorical techniques that form the backbone of argu- ment: The rhetorical techniques of argument are defined in this way: The translator read it late one night, intending to phone the next day to ask if it was possible to get a copy of the music.

There was a message on the answering machine. The translator was feeding paper into a printer, catching yet more errors. Cartridge out of ink. A computer talking back: White stacks on floor, packages prepared for release to known addressees to reach the unknown interlocutor. The window was open in Milan. Here it is, he said.

“La Prospettiva è una Cosa Seria”

I go ahead and just let him say it: This is an order! Do you need glasses? I was soaked, a faucet? Damn, could he have hypnotized me too? Small Talk I had bad dreams all night, all these snakes, how did you make this coffee? I was just about do go down to see you, and so have you finished the skirt? I say that, what are they racking their brains about? He is cur- rently on the faculty at Bennington College, where he teaches Italian literature. He also works as a writer of Italian films for DVD release. The main reason is translation. The English in the translation of the novel regularly tends to- wards the very linguistic medietas Gadda takes every possible step to avoid.

It also offers extensive com- mentary in the form of linear notes. The importance of the linguistic elaboration, indisputable in Gadda, are of primary concern to the translator. Much effort is being made in the present version to preserve the diatypes lexical variety of the original, where possible. Given the impossibility of translating into another language the aura parlativa peculiar to an environment, the translator must, however, try to conserve, in some way, the heterogeneity of registers that the introduction of colloquialisms and dialects represents.

This new translation is a small part of the renewed understanding of this great literary work. Synopsis In Fascist Rome the novel takes place in , the young police in- spector Francesco Ingravallo called don Ciccio for short , a detective-phi- losopher from the southern Italian region of Molise, is called on to investi- gate a jewel theft that has taken place in an apartment building at , Via Merulana. In the building lives a couple, Remo and Liliana Balducci, friends of Ingravallo: Three days after the robbery, whose investigation is so far inconclusive, Ingravallo is shocked by the news that Signora Balducci has been found murdered in her home.

He rushes to the scene and takes part in the preliminary inquiry, wondering whether there is any link between the two crimes. It also abounds indirectly, via remembered citations from others in speech from the mur- dered Liliana Balducci — an anomaly in a novel where the Signora is central, though largely silent. Ceccherelli, backed by the other two, corroborated down to the last detail both the order received by the poor Signora, more than two months before, and the sundry phases of the readying of the fob: In all honesty, I just focus on doing my job, as above board as possible.

Anyway just to be on the safe side, I chucked it right in this special drawer here I got for that stuff, just right as soon as I got it pried out of the setting with the pliers, without even laying a pinky on it, like. The pliers I ran over to the barber to have disinfected with alcohol: E come un cappone in mezzo a tanti galli!

Il ciondolo doveva consegnarlo a Giuliano in persona. Il cassiere—capo ragionier Del Bo conosceva Liliana: Like a capon in the middle of a bunch of roosters! The one you estimated at two thousand lire? I want to give that one away as a present. The one you figured was worth nine and a half thousand? You know to whom I mean! Liliana herself had insisted on explaining everything to Amaldi: Ceccherelli traced with the nail of his little finger the clean contour of the stone, green, seal mounted, that is to say slightly overhanging the setting, and backed with a thin gold plate, in order to hide and encase the uncut face.

Easier said than done. But after those three depositions in his defense by the three jewelers, that were middling enough, there was the one, better still, by the head teller of the bank: According to the bank balance on the savings account passbooks , it turned out that Liliana had withdrawn the ten thousand lire there, just on January Del Bo, the head teller, knew Liliana: Oh yes, he remembered it like yesterday: Una bella signora come lei. Domenica 20, nella mattinata, ulteriori indicazioni del Balducci ai due funzionari: Ed ecco il dente.

In dieci anni de matrimo- nio, a momenti, che, che! I medici aveveno parlato chiaro: Nice little smell, just take a whiff. Fresh from the Mint. I practically played the part of mother when he was a baby. The table, in fact, overflowed onto the shelves, and from there to the cabinets: All smoky and stifling, the charming Cacco atmosphere, in a syn- cretic little fragrance sort of like a barracks or the upper gallery of the Teatro Jovinelli: Beat the tower of Babel on a shopping day. In ten years of marriage, almost, not even a token: The doctors had laid it on the line: So that out of those ongoing disappointments, those ten years, or nearly, where the pain, the humiliation, desperation and tears had put down roots; from those use- less years of her beauty those sighs dated, those ahs, those long glances at every woman, not to mention the ones with a baby in the oven!

Er maschietto nostro de quattro chili: Avemo preso li passi avanti Ragguagli e rapporti di subalterni, parole e carta scritta: She looked at the girls; returned, in a flash as by deep-felt, despondent signal, the bold glances of young men: The pure assent of a fraternal soul: But out of the dark manger the years stampeded, one after the other, into nothingness.

That mania… for forking out double bed-sheets to the maids, insisting on putting up dowries, push- ing folks who asked for nothing better to tie the knot: Ate her heart out: Our eight pound kiddo, two pounds a month. The bride, poor kid, comes in with her guy, preceded by a belly like a hot air balloon at the fireworks at San Giovanni. Naturally they were a little embarrassed. I say to them, laughing: It was at this point, his face ashen, that Ingravallo begged leave to shove off: Reports and memoranda from subordinates, voiced or in writing: Femmine tutte, e nel ricordo e nella speranza, e nel pallore duro o ostinato della reticenza e nella porpora del non—confiteor: Roberto De Lucca shoulders sagging, with a bearing that seemed tired, absorbed.

He saw him pull a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, engrossed in unknown cares. The door closed behind him. Even that notion of wanting to die if no kid came: And now from the talk of the husband, made garrulous by hardship, by his sense of being at the center of attention and collective commiseration A hunter, he was! Saw himself tramping in with a bagged hare, shouldering his gun, muddied boots, panting hounds , needing to get it off his chest after the blow: Buttafavi and Alda Pernetti stairway A , whose brother counted for an extra six. Females all, demon- strating that widespread sensitiveness, in consequence: Females all, both in memory and hope, and in the hard, stubborn pallor of their reticence and the purple of the non-confiteor which dottor Fumi, those days, was soliciting them to recall in detail, with the courtesy and tact which set him apart during the whole of a long and busy career the just reward of which, today, is his nomination to the position of sub-prefect of Lucunaro, adnuente Gasparo: His latest book of translations is From Adam to Adam: Giorgio Roberti Poet, essayist, translator, editor, founder and presi- dent for thirty years of the Centro Romanesco Trilussa, Giorgio Roberti energetically promoted Romanesco language, culture and poetry.

His translation into Romanesco of Er Vangelo seconno S. Marco has been much praised and often reprinted. Note on translation G. Belli, writing sonnets in Romanesco in the early nineteenth cen- tury, gave an example for Italian poets with his sonnets that showed how dialect could convey the energy of conversation more effectively than stan- dard language.

We translators of dialect into English in the United States do not have dialects to convey that energy precisely, so we try to make our verse sound like people talking.

Quadratura dei cerchi concentrici – #nogelmini #bookbloc #demo2010

This would seem impossible for A Stick in the Eye, a story over twenty-seven centuries old, but Roberti helps with his deft details and his sudden shifts of style, and makes translating his poem a pleasure, though difficult. You call your country Greater Greece, because you dine on greater grease I guess--and stronger wine!

Tell me what your name is. Anyone will swear I am. But are you single? Do you have a wife? Hitched to the single life. Then the poor fool fell, fell like a stone, like a bull with his throat cut in the Colosseum at a festival. Some promised they were able to slip him a little gift beneath the table; and others talked about friends in high places. Like it or like it not, when all talk ended, all that the lottery threw up were four pathetic bastards no one ever protected. E mentre Lui strillava la natura diventava rugosa e penzierosa: Chi te fa piagne come un regazzino?

Nessuno che me leva, sarvognuno, tutto er punto de vista personale Furious, frantic, fast, Ulysses struck it deeper and turned it like a merry-go-round. At once that moribund volcano hurled forth great eye fragments and little wads of jell out of his monster brain. He yelled a yell enough to raise goose pimples on the world. As he was screaming, Mother Nature frowned, wrinkling her great face, and started to stir and raised up mountains from the level ground. Beholding earth beneath them relandscaped, many a luminous, uneasy star turned into a comet and escaped.

Are you all right? Why have you pulled your cave door shut and hid yourself away from us and out of sight? No One, god damn it! Then, hey, shut the fuck up and quit your belly aching. E le stelle me dicheno: He has published two po- etry chapbooks: His poetry has been included in numerous anthologies and published in local, regional and national magazines and newspapers. His principal works include: Note on translation The dialect I have translated is referred to by local people as Lancianese, that is the language of Lanciano, a city of 30, inhabitants in Abruzzo.

Although people familiar with Abruzzese dialects in general have proved helpful, at times I needed to consult with people who grew up in Lanciano in order to obtain the full flavor of a particular word or expression. Lancianese, like all languages, has evolved over time. Some words and expressions are now extinct. Only go backwards or even better stay nailed to the spot where you find yourself! Love and song My love, I would compose for you a song one of those hammered and forged in fire, polished the way it should be and blended with notes that are shiny and passionate.

I speak and afterwards you speak And what do we say? My Life My life: A sky that often has a hole that at certain times makes like a small window: A wind that, sometimes, if it stops leaves the dry leaves by my feet; What do you find that is good? Of a rose the only thing that you can pick up is a leaf!

A brooklet, even that at times, leaves the stains of melancholy and goes, without getting dirty with mud, singing all by itself along the way. The Song To those who no longer sing, the spirit of life is tasteless To those who sing more, the voice of the heart gets more flavor Concetta I Concetta, your petticoat is too hot swinging every which way as you walk! Cuncette, nche ssu passe vacce piane: Lanciane Bande e campane!

Concetta, step more softly as you go: Concetta, my God, why are you running? Take it easy as you walk or the folds of your dress will not fall right! Lanciano Bands and bells! Here is my dear Lanciano exactly the way it is. Snow All ruffled and with those tiny eyes soaked through and through, that wee bitty sparrow under that snowfall, wretched little thing, looked up at the sky and gave out a cry.

He looked for pity from saints and angels at least to keep the snow off of the roof? Bagpipes Snow falls and I hear the sound of footsteps; it is really him, it is the piper that, when I was a kid, just seeing him for me was a good time beyond compare! But how goes it, if one -- is the bagpipe and the other one -- is the song one sings why, why, do the oncoming years go by more than the festival shines through my tears?

He has published articles on Luzi, Montale, Tobino, and film. His translation focuses on Paolo Ruffilli and Davide Rondoni. In these ca- pacities, Rondoni has his finger on the pulse of Italian poetry. Three problems present themselves. First, as a translator, I feel humbled and unnecessary: Second, in this lyric unpretentiousness, cultural- linguistic differences arise.

How does one reproduce the cadences that follow a rhythm found somewhere between thought and dialogue? How does one translate a word that simultaneously exists as the beginning of a new thought as much as it exists as a continuation of a previous thought? Central Park, fine autunno, alberi di seta elettrica e color sangue nel freddo azzurro del cielo che salgono si aprono poi piano che si spengono, ombra che sta venendo, aria che si oscura.

Io chiedo a Oonagh: Senti che grida di barche invisibili. Cosa succede in questa poesia? And it starts, the frosty crown of the skyscrapers, to glisten on the more somber throng in the streets. You hear the shouts from invisible boats. In the dark bay. What is it that happens in this poem? Ripartirai con un lieve turbamento, quasi un ricordo e i silenzi delle scansie di oggetti, dei benzinai, dei loro berretti, sentirai alle tue spalle leggero divenire un canto. Non ho avuto gradoni di pietra su cui disteso perdere sotto il sole il lume della mente, addormentando.

My son, my traveler, your hell, your virtue might be your dog-like or angel-like hearing that detects the turning of the planets and a pill falling into a cup two floors below, where two seniors citizens attend to each other. This roaring love will be your father, your real one. Stop off for a spell in this highway rest-area, from the darkness it will be a pleasure to see you again I had avenues, wide, noisy streets, tall trajectories of by-passes, the open arms of a poor mother veins through which all sorts of things come into the city. I had tree-lined avenues or swift bouts of vertigo between steel walls and tinted glass.

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

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

I read in the Railway magazine: Matter that does not believe in its own being — like these travelers, in a slumber that amplifies the train cars in the evening. She was also awarded an NEA in translation. Raffaele Carrieri was born in Taranto, and lived a vaga- bond life in his teens and early twenties. He was only 15 when he was wounded, a serious injury to his left hand. He went back to Taranto, but after a brief stay, he sailed again around the Mediterranean visiting various ports including those along the coast of Africa. He worked at many jobs to support him- self, and on his return to Italy, worked as tax collector for two years.

It was during these two years that he started writing poetry, the poems that were collected in Lamento del gabelliere In he went to Paris where he lived for several years among the poets and painters of the time, and where he started writing articles about his travels. He settled for good in Milan , and worked as art critic.

In addition to several books of poetry, some of which won awards, including the Premio Viareggio, he wrote many books of art criticism, and biographies and studies of poets, sculptors and painters. Translating Carrieri In the poems that I translated Carrieri uses many of his briefly in- habited identities as masks, creating a multiplicity of selves: At times, he even identifies with the inanimate.

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

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

Altro non ricordo Di quella sera. Piccola morte So questo, era un soldato Con un paio di scarpe nuove Che accanto gli stavano A vegliarlo giorno e notte. Each of us knew It was the last evening. My eye and the bowl Were links In the same chain. The day after I survived the other. Small Death I know this: He was shot in the chest And every time he coughed He turned his sky-blue eyes To look at the shoes That watched like dogs The infirmary cot.

He died at five in the morning Saying only these words: Non ho niente Non ho niente Proprio niente Che sia mio. Anche le mani Hanno cessato Di essere mie. Even my hands Have ceased to be mine. They belong to this bony gun which in the dark resembles me. Waiting for Nothing Light has not been my friend On the earth nor water my sister.

The amiable rain water That like a mother puts to sleep The old tax collector And the young frog. I would have liked to close the sky Like a simple door To remain all day Hidden in the grass Waiting for nothing. Journal of Italian Translation Poems in English by Rina Ferrarelli translated into Italian Dreamsearch I was back in that other country again last night those narrow streets familiar and strange.

I walked on the worn stone in the shadow of houses looking for a door looking for a face and again I woke up too soon. Back to the Source Granite and river stone worn by walking, wide sloping steps with short rises the steep descent but not the straight path of a torrent sharp turns and small wide bends where walls jut out alleys come in I always go up in my dreams upstream back to the source.

At your features, your expression. She wanted you to smile off the frame, inside the frame and sometimes you did. Divestiture She unpinned the folds of white linen eloquent of place, loosened the loops and braided knots, and combed her hair into a bun.

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

My mother, the more delicate one, the one who wanted to get away, sat where the light fell on her hands, and pulling out the weft threads her sister had worked into a tight fabric, restructured the space with floss, white on white openwork borders, arabesqued windows. Rough- or fine-textured, the linens I was saving were meant to survive soaking in hot water and ashes, milling on the rocks. I machine wash them and when the weather is good, hang them outside, the way women still do over there, stretching them into shape while damp.

Most are holding up well; a few show signs of wear, but not from use. It was keeping them safe in a trunk for so many years that weakened the fabric. The Bridge Progress has finally come to the forgotten South. A new superstrada wide and straight as none before bypasses the shelf of road the sharp-angled bridge. The cross by the roadside reminds the few of us who remember fewer all the time of the men who died there hitting the rocks of the stream when their truck went off the road.

Seven men who knew how to do without how to turn in a small place taking nothing for granted. The bridge is crumbling purple flowers grow out of the wall. Ruvidi o fini, i panni che conservavo erano fatti per superare le prove del ranno e delle pietre. Sette uomini che sapevano far senza, che si muovevano nello stesso piccolo spazio senza prendere niente per scontato. Il ponte si sta sgretolando, fiori viola spuntano dal muro. Broomflowers Chrome yellow against green stems in bunches on the reddish dirt even-spaced rows like a pattern on a quilt.

Is this new or have I forgotten as I forgot the nightingale singing in the trees below the wall— what did I know then about nightingales— the row of stones holding the tiles down at the edge of the roof? On the breeze a whiff of their scent, delicate pleasing. The sun is down now, the sky turning indigo, but their yellow endures on the slope below the parapet.

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

Ma soprattutto rimane un poeta che ci sorprende, che continuamente sorpassa le frontiere di una facile ammirazione. Montale , Litania del perduto Prato , testo a fronte in inglese. Life, when all has been lost and the blame falls on the one who did not throw the rock, the blind man who without that singular limb the leg ripped from the belly in spite of the others, all three straight and strong cannot make his own dog return. Echo falling from the past whale beached upon the future, maybe remedy to an everyday life such conditional going in peace at the end of the rite. Musicista, traduttrice, scrittrice in italiano, inglese e francese, ha pubblicato racconti e soprattutto poesie: Variazioni belliche , Serie ospedaliera , Documento , Impromptu , Sleep , in inglese.

Conto di farla finita con le forme, i loro bisbigliamenti, i loro contenuti contenenti tutta la urgente scatola della mia anima la quale indifferente al problema farebbe meglio a contenersi. Giocattoli sono le strade e infermiere sono le abitudini distrutte da un malessere generale. Toys are streets and nurses are habits destroyed by a general sickness.

Estinguere la passione bramosa! Piazza Nicolai-Merwin-Rosselli-Bigon without passion or wanting to forget it I who burned with passion the passion extinguished in the burning I who burned with pain at seeing passion thus extinguished. To extinguish covetous passion! To distinguish passion from the true yearning for extinguished passion extinguish everything that is extinguish everything that rhymes with is: Extinguish the passion for self! She is also profoundly interested in poetry and has published three vol- umes: On occasion of the 40th anniversary of the Vajont tragedy, she edited the commemorative volume Vajont.

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

A lonely voice the word of the world that rips me within, almost yells. Others populate the echo of human depth feeding itself on the time and the place, without end. Dressed in black the long bodies are almost lost in the drawn faces of a people consumed by the look of one who is begging for justice no longer in the hour of death but of forgiveness. Grottesco come stare seduti sul ramo di un albero a parlare da soli.

Non so se vale la pena fingere che tutto sia ideale. Forse esclude la ragione ma il campo si allarga ovunque ci sia una misura di grandezza, e mentre ci si illude si perdono le radici. Vorresti il tuo albero quercia di luce con le radici strette nella terra.

It is so incredibly distant maybe never a part of this world across what fissure will the camel come to pass? Reality unravels sleepwalking across a surreal landscape, bugs everywhere — blossoming lies with an overview in perspective ascetic glaciers, surviving lymph. Oak Tree or Leaf August flies off like a leaf across the tree tops with someone who blows beneath it to make it fly.

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

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