Le astuzie delloccidente (Italian Edition)

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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teller of the bank: According to the bank balance on the savings account passbooks , it turned out that Liliana had withdrawn the ten thousand lire there, just on January Del Bo, the head teller, knew Liliana: Oh yes, he remembered it like yesterday: Una bella signora come lei.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. 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.

Berlinguer, Giuliana [WorldCat Identities]

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.

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. I think that the motto of this conclusive section of the work could have been a verse by John Donne, from his poem A Lecture upon the Shadow: Love is a growing, or full constant light.

A clear heart that definitely reminds us of a non-human center or heart, as in the first verse of a preceding poem in the Viaggio: This heaven has no other where but this: Luzi expresses himself very clearly on this point. There is a point art has not yet reached.

He feels that art has just mirrored the world up to now, perhaps glorifying it, but without going beyond its antinomies and its contrasts. He, the great colorist, has revived and illuminated up the great Sienese painting […] and yet he feels that color, even if so bright, keeps being difference; still, there is a light unifying everything, and it is that he would like to paint, that he strives after.

The human word, the word in the plural, the articulated and broken voice: The poet himself speaks of the need he felt to leave the brush for the chisel: This particular kind of human word, the word of poetry, can do so, has this power: A meditation on the powers of the poetical word, the background being a theology of the Word: In any case, this is the subject of my article. Here are the quotations. The first one comes from St. In lei [la parola] era la vita; e la vita era la luce degli uomini.

We shall come back to this point. Let us now instead quote a commentary to this motto, given by the poet himself in an essay of , Le parole agoniche della poesia. He writes of the verses of St. Paul, and whose work was immensely influential on the whole subsequent theological and spiritual literature of Christianity. We cannot ignore that Dyonisius is no minor source for Italian po- etry, since his work can be proved to have inspired Dante in conceiving his Paradise more than any other theological and philosophical work — except for that of Thomas Aquinas.

Are there any features of it, which can indeed be enlightened through a reference to the Platonic tradition and the work of Dyonisius in particular? This work is about all the possible ways to speak of God. It works out an audacious and very innovative conception of theology, starting from the very question: How is theology possible? Now this answer is far from being the only one. Theology, the speech about God, is one of these effects, and indeed a luminous one.

God himself kindles the human mind, arousing words and phrases about himself. The only sin in this field is the uninspired word. He is sun and star and fire and water, breath, dew, cloud and stone and rock, all of the existing things and none of them. Actually, there is a poem in this collection more exactly in its section, Nominazione [Naming] that seems to be a commentary of the quoted sentence: Non detto un nome solo, il tuo che sotto altri si cela.

Only one name unsaid, yours hiding under others. It is a quotation from St. No doubt the Word is still in the focus of attention: And in fact, a few lines above, Agustine quotes one of his favorite verses by St. Ambrose, the same one on whose example he had explained this theory in his treatise On Music: On the contrary, it is opposed to the greed for things of this passing world. Invocare est vocari, to invoke is to be called. Now, to hear a call one must be in an attitude of listening and attention.

This third motto adds an image to the theological references of the other two quotations: It is the oblique, non-frontal attention, which strikes us so much in the pictures of the Annun- ciation. Luzi must have such a picture in mind when he writes in the Viaggio: There are many words to depict this state of attention, or of poetry, which seems to change ordinary perception into wonder at every existing thing: In a short text of , Prosa e poesia, the young Luzi had written: The birth of the image, during which the mind […] identifies itself with the very object of its emotion, is the necessary moment that the poet, having lived through his prose, does expect from his whole-hearted awe, not from his imagination.

Dizione is the speech act: Chi elimina la melma, chi cancella la contumelia? Who eliminates the mire, who erases the contempt? Notice that the words for this something are absolutely biblical — they reminds us of the words of John the Baptist in Luke 3, It is buried in matter, as it were — deeply in the language itself, as we shall see. Why is this something, spirit or fire of the word in the language, no longer there? There is here an opposition, very similar to the one we found in Augustine, between prose and poetry, the functional and the musical registers of language.

In its functional register, language is used, words serve to do things — to convey information or to act upon other people. In this usage, words necessarily and daily undergo a process of wear and tear. All in the practice of life, of history, tends to corrupt the word, to reduce it to mere sign, to steal power from it, to make it meaningless, conventional, no longer spirit but just letter. Let us follow this line of thought up to another formulation of this opposition between the functional and the non-functional word: There is a word which serves the thought and a word which gives birth to it […].

The language that science uses, for example, is utilitarian language, it serves for comunicating a concept […]. The language of poetry has by no means this nature. It has no limits: It is a power to give birth to the thought — in a most general sense. Le parole agoniche della poesia is the title of the essay we keep quoting: This is the subject of the whole book [Per il battesimo dei nostri frammenti]: What I find much more interesting than this frame, is the way in which the very experience it harbors seems to be referred to the process of poetic creation, which is thereby presented as an event transcending human authorship, even if it involves the whole life of the poet.

In short, the act of poetry is seen by analogy not just with divine creation, but with incarnation. Is the story over, erased the person, lost or won the contest?

Or maybe it is the other that matures and shines, full love, the full annihilation into what? Lost or won — the agone? Here is an answer by the poet: Hence language does no longer pass through words: Hence it is clear that that there is an actual defeat [of language], actual up to renouncement, and to mutism […]. The first negative movement of the human word in poetry is compa- rable to the first one of the capitalized Word, becoming a creature.

The poet gives up Logos and personal identity, and history. Consider this other poem: Lingua — Acqua dal suo primevo. Luce da quel solare scintillamento? It, water barely tumbling down from the high cliff. Light from that solar brilliance? Or shivers of darkness? Luzi tells us that philosophy and pure thought have always been a temptation for him.

Just as for Dante and Leopardi, we can add. Luzi is indeed a true, coherent thinker. What retains him from professional philosophy is the lack of incarnation of most philosophical thought. This is no vague metaphor against abstraction in poetry. Incarnation is the very condition of the creative power accorded to the poetic word — and refused to the technical language of philosophy. Let us first see what this creative power is, and then, by way of a conclu- sion, what some more recent verses tell us about this experience of the incarnate word.

What does this mean? Tocca Nadir e Zenith della tua significazione.

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This word multiplies its meaning by intensifying the lived experience of the evoked thing. Its first power is to awaken. Words and things awaken each other […] they exchange their powers […] such is the generation of life within sensibility, and this is the mover of poetic thought.

It is a merry event when this happens, I mean, the twofold revelation of things and words: Esclami, the expres- sion of surprise and wonder. Luzi also speaks of the sudden recognition of reality; as one says in the language of drama: Luzi speaks of another power of this word, which has always compensated him for the sufferings involved in the poetic struggle, and which he calls a power of inner recomposition. He defines it as follows: Poetry puts the world in order, it somehow reconstitutes the harmony of the word. Any important verse, any verse issued from a deeply meditated harmonious thought, gives you this measure of the world, or rather renews this measure in you.

The example chosen to illustrate this statement is from Dante, La gloria di colui che tutto muove: Just the utterance of this verse seems to me lawgiving. It partakes of a norm, is in the world […] it produces a process of harmonic remoulding of the world. Ma poi che importa? The last aspect of the power of the word according to Luzi introduces us to that meditation on the incarnate word that is still in progress, and on which I shall close my reflection, too.

This power of generating more and more new thoughts, of renewing its message across the ages, characterizes great poetry. Now, as expressed in Vola alta, parola, transcendence and incarnation, height and depth are correlated di- mensions of the word. The deeper it grows, the higher it flies. Now, what does it mean for the poet, this growing deep, this incarnation? This service is not only a surrender of the ego, as we saw, but something more. Through the poet, life must descend to: Nel mare del non dormito sonno. In the long poem dedicated to him, Simone, the artist, makes his appearance in a sort of sleep: Dorme il suo viaggio, lui, entra fasciato dal suo sonno nello spazio che lo ingoia e nel tempo che lo attende.

Entra nel suo futuro lui, dormiente. He enters his future asleep.

Berlinguer, Giuliana 1933-

Sleep — this watchful sleep — is, as it were, the subjective equivalent of the winter earth, full of seeds. Semi, incidentally reminding us of semantics, are of course a powerful metaphor for the ele- ments of the phrase, or for the speech act in its potential state. The deeper the seeds of life-light-word go, the higher the power of revelation of the uttered word will be.

The poet himself does not know: La sua minuzia e la sua incalcolabile potenza. Other poems describe the descending movement towards the depth of the mother-tongue: OP, they penetrated languages, descended into nations, went up their trunk, their spines, their roots, to the indistinct loam, the not-yet uttered, mute fate — before, before the word. Dentro la lingua avita, fin dove, fino a quale primo seme della balbuzie umana? OP, Within the ancient tongue, till where, till which first seed of human stuttering? And it is paradise. This is what is before the light, or — as the preceding poems have it — before the word.

OP, Motionless in anteluce that block of expectation and silence, cut into by his verse, scaled by his song. Some examples, from the whole trilogy: And, of course, anteluce. In a way, the utmost power of the word lies before its utterance — in its pure potentiality. The humility of the earthly seed is the glory of heavens — and so the Viaggio terrestre e celeste seems to have come to its end.

But for those who read the last poem of the Viaggio, what I would call the miracle of Plotinus seems to happen once more. Tutto senza ombra flagra. OP, Being is. Whole, unconsumed, equal to itself. As it is it becomes. Without end, it infinitely is and becomes, it becomes itself other than itself. Nothing of what is hidden hides it. No captivity of symbol holds it or any other sheath garrisons it. Everything blazes without shadow. It is essence, advent, appearance, all utterly transparent substance. Is this paradise perhaps?

See Verso Ragusa, NP, La sola pronunzia di questo verso mi sembra legiferante. La poesia vera […] opera un processo di rifusione armonica del mondo. It was very interesting for me to ascertain recently — while conducting a discus- sion with my students in a course that I have designed to be a laboratory of translation — their curious but not wholly surprising reactions when faced with various versions of a biblical citation.

Everyone, without exception, found the St. James version to be not only the most beautiful but also the most worthy of the divine word. The archaic became the arcane for these young minds whose linguistic explorations are still virginal, causing their responses to be more genuine; visceral, I would say.

Their relationship to language — these are teenagers I am speaking of — is indeed so profoundly unconscious that it allows them to have a truly intuitive interaction with it. A poetic translation, namely a poetic text, has the same potential duration as its original. Since, as we know, what endures is the product and not the producer.

Lawrence says it quite dramatically in Women in Love: Let mankind pass away — time it did. The creative utterances will not cease, they will only be there. Humanity is a dead letter. There will be a new embodiment, in a new way. No doubt this is what Eco implied. But right next to this implication there also arises, in his statement, the explicit criticism of translation as a craft that remains something less than an art form, thus cursed with non-endurance, among other things.

Yet we know that the instrument of poetry is language, which is also the tool of translation. It seems deductibly simple to conclude that if the linguistic worth of the original, once turned into another language, acquires parallel linguistic heights, what we will have is an unaging Dante along with an unaging Longfellow in translation, for example. The loss in this process may be the transparent and overpowering presence of the pristine individuality of the poet-author, but the text continues on its living voy- age with its reader-ship.

This magnetic Italian poet is one of those elusive characters whose personal questione della lingua cannot be answered in a simple manner. To ask ourselves what is his principal language, would be more seemly than to wonder which one was his first language. As we know, he was born of Italian parents, raised until early youth in an Arab country, and first educated by French Jesuits. These circumstances can of- ten lead either to a linguistic anxiety, in the fear of not mastering any one language fully, or to a certain nonchalance, and perhaps even arrogance, in the affirmation of a trans-linguisticity.

Marinetti does not seem to suffer from the former affliction. We can observe some of the latter as we look closely at the Italian version of the work that was originally subtitled as Roman africain. Mafarka the Futurist is a poetic tale: Betraying of the poetry that flows from the original: Discrepancies in the simultaneous texts raise various problems. For example, when Marinetti describes his war machines: Is the allusion to the Homeric Trojan horse, one desired in the later edition by the author, or one inscribed by the translator?

This seems to point not to a flaw on the part of the translator it is after all not an easy confusion but rather to an authorial change. We are then faced with a puzzling philological problem, which is not solvable by textual criticism only, since Cinti was working side-by-side with the author. Did Marinetti rewrite certain parts of this final version? Or did the translator take such liberties? Given the imperious personality of the author, I would suggest that in most cases it must have been the former rather than the latter.

Marinetti was also the theoretician of paroliberismo and the prophet of velocity. This is a poet who recuperates and rewrites — patches together, collages if I may introduce this verb — many of his works, thus his eyes return to his texts over and over again. And in the structure of collage the disregard for an exact and precise form is inferred; it is in fact a formlessness or anti-formality that is sought.

His breath is rich, passionate, and staggering, but it comes in an explosive form, therefore it often seems truncated. Let us look at another strong translational shift away from the original: The Italian variant loses the orgasmic quality poetically willed in the French of the author.

This suppression occurs skillfully, everywhere, cleansing the liquid quality of the original language toward a more terse and colder form. The term selected by Marinetti is instead laden with the exoticism and the technologism that are consistent with his poetology: In such a case, the etymology reveals fabular as well as polemological qualities. My critique of Cinti is mainly directed at what appears to be in general an anxiety of linguistic propriety, which, however, as we know, did not stop the Italian censors of the time from charging Marinetti with obscenity.

The affective boundaries between the brothers are deliberately blurred. The transgressive intention informing this text is recognized as one that wants to break the frontiers that limit the expression of love as codified by bourgeois society. Even in this sensitive moment, Marinetti interjects a word that pulsates with ambiguity. There are also curious cutting actions on the part of the Italian translator that often leave the reader befuddled.

Cinti disregards this effect. The following, which I offer in my English rendition, is not kept as a whole passage by the Italian translator: The town of Tell-el-Kibir had become quite bizarre in appearance in the last two days: But the scuffling of the crowds hampered the horses at every instant, and the pitiable vehicles remained immovable under the hold of their furious drivers; they looked like unmoored islets adrift in the tide of a devastating river.

Brawls continuously produced whirlwinds of arms and raised sticks, which caused a raucous entertainment for the women and the children overflowing on the interlaced balconies of the mosques [p. In Cinti the brawling occurs in a separate paragraph, neatly set apart, breaking once again the dramatic effect of the tumultuous scene. The impulsive nature of the original is thus missed, and with it its poetic thrust.

Some are quite significant; here is just one example: The exclusion diminishes the linguistic and poetic tension. And again later, when Marinetti writes: We cannot conclude that the author has desired these eradications when we consider later works, such as Gli Indomabili, or Novelle colle labbra tinte, just to name a few. As the description of the masses of intoxicated writhing bodies takes on Dantesque proportions, the almost baroque beauty of a French phrase becomes a true challenge.

Two naked men are struggling to use their knives against each other: My rendition simply admits its failure. All this reminds me of a passage in the aforementioned D. The English versions which I offer here seek to respond primarily to the act of poetic and linguistic seduction that Marinetti attains in the first, French, Mafarka. It seems impossible to this translator not to work simultaneously with both Mafarkas while experimenting with translations from this novel — somewhat mirroring a central concept of this Afro-Italian francophone poet, that of simultaneity.

But there is yet another and third Mafarka underlying these two, a more recondite and mysterious infratext. A for- gotten one, that fully deserves to be called the African Romance. The lost novel is the one of the lost language. The language that Marinetti breathed but did not speak. Capturing the shimmering presence of the concealed language, the Arabic of Alexandria of Egypt — the third phantasmagoric language dormant beneath the other two — is the challenge of unveiling a powerful absence.

In all the quoted passages, the emphases are mine. But is this a conscious homage on the part of Cinti, or just another Cintian choice for a more literary language, a language which FTM is on the verge of refuting virulently? Even though we may think that we perceive language as being at least reasonably responsive to the world around it, every time we ask whether a translation is faithful to the original, we automatically assume that language is faithful to itself.

I want to suggest it may not be. The foundation for this claim is that language clearly adopts a rela- tional stance to the world, meaning that it is not only in a continual state of adaptation or metamorphosis but of hybridization. The good news for translators is that this process may place them in a natural position of being able to enrich or even to activate this hybridization.

Just a few of those changes include: This could even be seen as a reaffirmation of faithfulness, since it is only through this shifting, evolutionary process that language survives at all. We see through the Borges example, I believe, a language ensuring its own futurity through a tacit faithlessness. It is, in fact, this education that creates the foundation for the paradigm of linguistic hybridization that I believe her work becomes. From the moment of her birth to the age of 10, Rosselli was immersed in the French language both at home and publicly.

La Signora Bruner si trova nei pasticci per aver distribuito migliaia di copie di un libro fortemente accusatorio nei confronti della plizia federale; la donna accusa inoltre la stessa FBI dell'omicidio di un giornalista. La bella bugiarda Visual 2 editions published between and in Italian and held by 2 WorldCat member libraries worldwide Archie Goodwin viene coinvolto dalla testimonianza della bella Susan in un omicidio.

Nero Wolfe naturalmente non abbandona il suo assistente e cerca di risolvere il caso. Nero Wolfe Visual 1 edition published in in Italian and held by 1 WorldCat member library worldwide. Giuliana Berlinguer Italian film director, screenwriter and writer. Giuliana Berlinguer italienische Regisseurin und Drehbuachutorin. Italian 75 German 1 French 1. Author , Director , Translator.

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