It is another I. Which kind of geographical and historical research you did before writing a novel like Tikkop? I lived in a small fishing community on the Cape shores for three month. I never mention the name of it because I got a lot of sensitive information from inhabitants who don t want to be exposed. I very often do research by living in another town or country. For Il vagabondo I walked hundreds of kilometers in Paris, especially in the banlieue. I got to know some illegal workers in Paris, and I visited their homes and workplaces.
In South Africa I visited several fishing communities and joined local meetings. I also met some social workers in the Cape who work with drug addicts. Historical research was not really necessary. I always make a lot of notes and have meters of old dairies at home.
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It was forbidden to do that, but during the training for my illegal mission to Apartheid South Africa, I knew that 44 For me life is one big research for a novel. What s for you the threshold between autobiography and fiction? My very personal thoughts and hangups stay sealed behind my lips. Shame is a very important feeling in my life. I was brought up with shame. So I know how to hide or change the too personal in a good story. If I really want to write about my deepest feelings I can always put them in the mouth of another character. In Il vagabondo, for example, I created a priest out of my religious doubt as an atheist.
The same in Tradimento: I can be the revolutionary and the conservative the two contrasting feelings live both in my brain. You have just moved from Paris, a town where you lived for many years, a town where you wrote 4 relevant novels. What are doing next? Where will you be based?
Or, where will you travel to next? After eight years I moved from Paris because Paris wants things I don t want any more. I wrote enough about refugees, and pour buggers. The commitment is still there but artistically I need another subject. My next novel will be about my mother who died at the age of almost hundred years two years ago.
It will not be about my relationship with her, but about her life as a young girl over the color line in the tropics. I do a lot of research for that. I find a lot about it in old newspapers. Our colonial past is still an open wound in the Netherlands and I want to write about that. So, again, a small life will tell a greater story. Robert Crawford. Photo credit: Annaleen Louwes. Interview conducted by. January R. Your new book, Meeting Place, 2 talks a good deal about the architectonics of communication the relationship between setting and speech and you repeatedly invoke a non or posttheatrical modei of appearing to one another.
Would this be an important line of descent linking the two works? In The Road to Botany Bay an opposition was proposed between a history conceived theatrically and a dynamics of placemaking embedded in material practices. As an artist working in public space, he is well-known for Nearamnew Federation Square, Melbourne, Evidently, in the context of the phenomenon of colonisation - where the translation of space into various modes of human production provides the content of what distinctively belongs to colonial history this is a seriously inadequate conception.
To what extent was colonial space mimetic of other spaces or performative improvised in relation to the circumstances of concrete situations? This approach to the understanding of colonial cultures and their geographical constitution had as its corollary a different emphasis in reading the records of crosscultural encounter. Instead of seeing the early ethnographic records of crosscultural encounter as proto-anthropological, I focused on their performative character, classifying them as sites of mimetically-mediated social innovation. Of course, the potential of these encounters was rarely fulfilled and this accounts for the colonist fiction that the colonial landscape was prior to colonisation silent and voiceless and, post-colonisation, univocally settled with white words.
In a way it was unfortunate that the US edition altered the subtitle: by comparing my hermeneutical approach to the colonial act of exploration, it suggested that the book recapitulated the very techniques of historical framing and classification that, in fact, it sought to expose and dethrone. Metaphor is a way of throwing ourselves over into another place or position; a primary tool of relating.
Discourse not only relies on metaphorical turns of expression. As a relation between two people it is essentially metaphorical: a dialogue between a minimum of two people represents a unit of sociability that is dyadic it can never be reduced to the idealised monologue of the sovereign ego in terms of imperial history, there cannot be a commanding viewpoint. As a social practice, as a way of managing encounter, the discursive constitution of sociability demands that the speaker is actively engaged in the communication act.
A primary technique of symbolic exchange is mimicry always with a creative supplement of irony, parody or intensification of gesture. These ideas were sketched in The Road to Botany Bay and subsequently foregrounded in a number of books, as well as performance scripts, that explored the potential of echoic and mimetic techniques to establish crosscultural common ground both intellectually and physically.
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Meeting Place seeks to elevate and generalise some of these investigations. Instead of treating Australia as an historical case study, it argues that the Southern experience of encounter, embodied in Indigenous practices of meeting, represents a genuine alternative to the dominant models of sociability originating in European and North American thought.
In general, social theory has assumed the intrinsic good of meeting: it has tacitly identified improved protocols for peaceful coexistence with the western telos of progress.
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Meeting Place juxtaposes this rather anthropocentric view of planetary space and its absorption into human interests with a counter-argument, derivable from Indigenous Australian cultures where meeting might have the contrary function of regulating a culture of non-meeting. Nonmeeting in this context does not mean a retreat into solipsism. It is the cultivation of a centrifugal impulse that organises the distribution of human communities in a way that is sustainable.
Our network cultures already simulate this but they are not copied in the way we organise our cities or, indeed, in our entire relationship with the biosphere. But isn t there a danger that promoting a culture of non-meeting reifies Indigenous Aboriginal culture in a comparable way? Is the division geographical or are we talking about a kind of mental geography? That said, though, Meeting Place seeks to resist implicitly regulatory or closed loop descriptions of social behaviour and its symbolic mediation. It focuses on incidents, situations or even concepts that illustrate the power of social performances to ride the turbulence of encounter and initiate new protocols of coexistence.
Let me give a couple of concrete examples, both from my own encounters in Central Australia. The first concerns the role of the white art teacher Geoffrey Bardon in catalysing what came to be known as the Papunya Tula Painting Movement The second is Red Ways, a meeting place design project in Alice Springs, in which I was involved between and Bardon possessed an exceptional mimetic talent: copying, parodying, gesturally and performatively aligning himself with the multimedia practices of Indigenous men living away from their ancestral country, he staged an encounter that took the art production back to its roots.
But there was nothing essentialist or exoticist about this: Bardon brought into play his own pedagogical skills materials, interpretations and senses of audience. The outcome of a radical encounter, which was performative or improvisational all the way down, was the new meeting place of a transformed art practice whose ramifications have been social, economic and, above all, political. The dynamics of encounter at Papunya played out in the symbolic domain of painting, but it was possible to show that structurally what happened there was no different from innumerable encounters between indigenous and non-indigenous parties across historical time and space.
The key similarity in all the situations singled out in Meeting Place was a propensity for sympathetic identification made manifest in mimetic behaviour: what was being sought was not some shallowly-grounded and pragmatic resolution of differences but a gesturally-mediated identification, a temporary meeting place that did not merely preserve the trace of the encounter but was in its form and program the trace of that mimetically-evolved new situation.
These investigations were not the application of a theoretical model to a local problem. On the contrary, a concrete situation generated the grammar that was needed to reinvigorate the social phenomenon of meeting, to give it once again a generative value. Performance in this context is the proper, even if temporary fit, of human actors and their surroundings; the multiplication of these performances might produce a region of such encounters, tied together but apart.
So, while there is no intention to propose a southern confederacy of interests, it is reasonable to associate with the south the idea of crosscultural encounter. It is in the south where the expanding wave front of imperial expansion has provoked the densest human experience of enforced socialisation and where, logically, the richest performative ecologies might be expected to emerge. Less exotically, these geographical reconfigurations of models of socialisation find powerful precedents in Michael Serres or Bruno Latour.
And certainly, when Meeting Place spatialises its argument as the traverse of a city whose labyrinth curiously suggests Venice, the aesthetic bias of the author is clear: if the north invests in the plan the meeting place as prescribed place, platz or square , the south suggests an archipelagic sensibility. The non poetic point is that insights into the character of meeting are not supplementary or dispensable: they reground social relations entirely, placing the institution of meeting literally and figuratively on a new footing. As you say, in that period a spatial turn has characterised much research in such allied fields as cultural geography, social anthropology, performance studies and even such placemaking discourses as planning.
What have been the important influences on the development of your thought in this period? I don t mean to give the impression that these and publications in between have evolved in isolation from the resurgence across a whole series of fields of material thinking, 4 however, to speak from inside the process, it was in the laboratory of creative practice that many of the data were found or produced that informed the refinement and evolution of my ideas.
The exchange was, of course, two ways. Early radiophonic scripts, museum sound installations and environmental soundscapes teased out the mimetic structuring of early colonial cross-cultural encounter indeed, they relied heavily on early to mid th century language notebooks assembled by missionaries and other colonial functionaries. Such an identity might correspond to the distinctive sound signature of a meeting place. These practical findings provided new tools of analysis useful in reading the colonial archive in a different way.
The demonstration that colonial spaces were produced, that the meaning accruing to spaces was embedded in the poetic mechanisms of their formation, appealed to architects and landscape architects. From working in a primarily acoustic interior space domain, I migrated in the late s to design work in the public domain. There followed a series of public space designs that attempted to integrate 4 Carter refers here to a characterization of recent social and cultural theory by Nigel Thrift see Meeting Place, p. Carter s own book Material Thinking: the theory and practice of creative research was a notable contribution to this trend.
In a classical sense these artworks aimed to integrate topos and topic, place and theme. The artwork acted as a catalyst to this recognition and the concrete choreographies found in the ground patterns were conceived as inducements to congregate in particular ways. In general, these works explored the proposition that the socially and politically-regulated act of meeting had embedded within it a primary desire of association that theatrically-conceived public spaces repressed.
I associated this primary desire with the longing for encounter. In encounter the future is not prescribed: it evolves in the performance. Encounter merges into meeting when the forms and gestures improvised in encounter stabilise when their traces can be inscribed of encounter. In this case, the kinds of trace laid down in these encounter are critical to the kind of meeting qua sociability that will subsequently evolve.
The function of the inscriptions composed and engraved into my public space designs is to announce at the beginning the grounding of social praxis in a non-conformist discourse formed echoically. Their cryptic appearance invites a creative response; but nothing beyond the human impulse to relate what was found to ones own path and interests is inscribed into the future. Nevertheless, I get the impression that a dominant or predominant narrative voice does characterise Meeting Place: that of the migrant. Doesn t the migrant risk becoming another kind of essentialist trope? The migrant invoked in Meeting Place embodies a distinctive historical consciousness and, what goes with this, a distinctive experience of placemaking.
Picking up on a distinction of Edward Said, I argue that the necessity of the migrant to affiliate to their new society they are excluded from the myth of filiation, which white settler nations use to erase the guilt of an original incursion and theft places them in a privileged position. It also implies enormous responsibility, for the migrant has ethically speaking no choice but to engage with the grounds for living in a new country. An engagement with Aboriginal experience is unavoidable.
The argument made in Living In A New Country, and taken forward into Meeting Place is that a striking resemblance exists between the Pidginised discourses of crosscultural communication in the early colonial contact period and the hybrid discourses of 50 In both, standard English is stripped of its conventional grammar and syntax; pronunciation is wildly idiosyncratic and meaning is largely contextual, carried by gesture.
Instead of preserving authoritative concepts, English becomes a score on which baroquely associative variations are played. In this performative dismembering of the dominant tongue, meeting the successful exchange of meanings rediscovers its origins in the mimetic structuring of encounter. A migrant poetics, so to say, reinscribes desire into language by re-gesturalising it.
Valamanesh s work is paired with Giacometti s: at the end of Meeting Place, Giacometti s famous human groups often known by such generic names as La Place are characterised as dramatisations of encounter, capturing the moment perhaps the instant between two strides when all is about to happen but when all has, in another sense, already been determined. They are chiastic works that hold the meeting place open to the possibility of encounter.
In this softer, existential sense, the migrant represents the one who comes from outside. They are associated with an inrush of desire, an essential component of Eros according to Socrates. Colonial writers claim that Australian Indigenous peoples explained the inexplicable arrival of the British as the return of naturally white forebears or ghosts. Migrants stand in this relation to the imagined community of the nation state. They bring into question the identity of the host; they suggest that the host is the ghost of another, unfulfilled social relation. In ghosting the Other, the migrant inverts the hierarchy of appearances.
At the end of Meeting Place I conclude with a vignette from Marseilles: a street mimic is described whose mimicry of the crowd illustrates the migration of identity from the self to the other; his performance the serpentine line of his movement form materialises a new choreography, one where the ghost of encounter continues to haunt the place of meeting.
Besides the canonic status you grant to the Italian piazza as a site of social encounter, there is a specific reference to La Vera Storia, a music theatre work by Luciano Berio and Italo Calvino I believe you also worked with Berio in the early 90s. Reading between the lines and with the knowledge of your anti-fiction Baroque Memories in mind the affection you have for the baroque mode is also inspired by Italy by your personal encounter with Italian art and culture. However, in this context, it is the symbolic function of Italy in the structuration of the narrative that is perhaps most relevant.
Just as the space of the meeting place is a labyrinth of passages, so the time of meeting instantaneous, chiastic is non-linear. Hence it seemed to me that the challenge of cultural writing about encounter and meeting was to incorporate these nonlinear or nonsequential aspects of the phenomenon into the structure of the narrative. Meeting Place is a sequence of crossings that, it emerges, involve the retracing and deepening of thematic grooves already encountered earlier.
It is structured as a system of returns that like the labyrinth paradoxically brings you to another place: movement is helical rather than circular. The returns are of various kinds. For example, Meeting Place revisits passages from earlier books. These it rewrites and relocates. One should come upon them as one comes upon a familiar street rendered unfamiliar by approaching it from a different direction or in a different light. The idea is that encounter is always rencontre: to come across something always has written into it the memory or the expectation of another encounter.
In the same way the classic sites of first contact and the mimetic performances they inspire never occur on neutral ground or in a cultural vacuum. In them is staged a return to certain spontaneous or pre-reflective behaviours that in the encounter become objects of reflection. Therefore it would be a mistake if Meeting Place were to arrive somewhere decisively new: the task is almost the reverse, to find a way to linger, to live alongside, to coexist.
The way in which, for example, the reader encounters Giacometti admittedly only Italian by adoption illustrates this structuring principle. The discussion is in two halves, the latter staging a return to the theme from an entirely new direction. Just as there is no dominant viewpoint in Giacometti s groups the scale is internal to their interactional dynamic so there is no finalisation of the discussion.
Instead, in this way, Giacometti s work steps off the pedestal and out into the world or at least into the world of the book, where, at the end, a visit to the Fondation Maeght folds seamlessly I hope into the scene of the Marseilles mimic. This is not some kind of literary flourish: it translates into narrative form the difficulty that Giacometti confronted in New York where, challenged to scale up his figures to a real world environment, the great sculptor equivocated.
In Meeting Place at least his figures again walk through the world. So with Italy: the vignettes of past experiences in Italy are, when glimpsed again from the winding stair of the argument relocated as earlier traces of movements whose completion is yet to occur. However, it also raises the question of genre. Some of Il Tolomeo s readers may find your concern with form rather abstract, and certainly a distraction from the substance of the book.
After all, despite its fictional elements, Meeting Place is, as you say, cultural writing intended as a contribution to the broad arena of contemporary cultural and social theorising around the conditions of peaceable human coexistence. From this more pragmatic perspective, can you, for example, say what a zone of encounter would look like? Does it have an existence outside the moment and the occasion of its performance? And, if it does, how might its trace be inscribed into, for example, the design and program of meeting places?
On the question of genre, though, it is worth pointing out that 52 It argues that the social sciences take communication for granted and for this reason overlook the obstacles to understanding between strangers and the importance of improvised performative tactics in overcoming these. While such disciplines as sociology, legal studies, psychology, political theory and even urban planning treat meeting as a good in its own right identifying it with the democratic procurement of wellbeing , they fail to offer a model of what makes meeting possible and worth pursuing: a prior and always unfulfilled desire of encounter.
There is a sense in which, I suggest, the very phenomenon that these fields seek to promote eludes them: the performative dynamics that characterise the eros of meeting fall between their disciplinary interests.
In this sense Meeting Place both falls outside these disciplines and between them. In broad terms a zone of encounter occurs where the actors participate in the production of the meaning of the event. Where a performance grammar is improvised desire is also inscribed. Mimetically-mediated communication produces a unique complex of signs that, being shared, can also be returned recognised and exchanged.
Communication of this kind occurs at this place and time: its conceptual freight is less important than the confrontation with the Other that it records. They solicit a relationship that is essentially public. The great original of the contemporary urban tag is the Delphic injunction Know Thyself. To come across such an inscription is to feel oneself addressed. The self is made aware that it comes from somewhere else. It is asked to understand itself through a process of presencing to another. In that encounter public space is no longer benignly neutral: it presses on the individual to say where they stand.
With this genealogy in mind, many of the chapter titles in Meeting Place are taken from tags I have collected in various cities. Encounter in this model is the potentiality of public space to incubate new relations. It is the scaffolding of distance that makes the possibility of approach possible. It holds apart in order to draw together. If this is so, the design of the meeting place needs to preserve these qualities of timing and spacing. Meeting Place canvasses a number of options that meet this criterion: the new meeting place may be virtual; or it might be composed entirely of walls places where the traces of passage are retained while the human presences that produced them remain immanent.
These, of course, are thought experiments rather than practical suggestions. They try to visualise the enigma of Public Eros, whose work is, paradoxically, to bring people together by paths that can never be fully formulated. Intrigued by the same question you pose, I have recently completed a manuscript, provisionally called Ambience, the design of public space. Just as Meeting Place bears the impression of recent public space design projects in which I have been involved most notably in Central Australia so the theoretical implications of Meeting Place have informed my design practice.
Ambience takes back to this practice the insights of Meeting Place, arguing that the zone of encounter is characterised by certain movements that approximate to algorithms of sociability. One of the innovations of Ambience is to make the case for the existence of a complex, and constantly self-changing feedback loop between behaviour in public spaces and the design of public space.
It is both a running hither and thither and the endless flow of human communication. The proposition of Meeting Place is that an awareness of this enables us to curate these flows in ways that bring out their poetic potential, that is, their mimetic impulse through which the desire of identification expresses itself.
The role of the social performances that stage an encounter is to catalyse the emergence of meeting places. Such places are the trace of the discourses that shaped them. In English we differentiate between storytelling and stories that are telling, that is, reveal something significant. Meeting places are where story telling is telling i.
Another way to put this is to say meeting places retain their power to generate social Eros when they let something take place, that is, initiate a material transformation. To go back to the challenge of public space design: it is obvious that a new kind of relationship is implied between placemaker and public. She was on her way home from the premises of the Times of India, where she works as a reporter covering stories from this amazing metropolis.
Journalism, however, is not Namita s only occupation, she is also a musician and a novelist. Her debut in the literary work was a kind of autobiography entitled The Music Room, where the author describes her relationship with traditional Indian music and her gurus. Her second and latest novel, Aftertaste, recounts the story of a business family based in Mumbai and their mithai shop. Mithais are very tasty traditional Indian sweets lined with a silver foil, and we are very disappointed that in the modern, stylish coffee house attached to the arts centre they do not have any.
However, Namita s easy smiling kindness soon dispelled our disappointment as she started talking about modern India, her relationship with the tradition and the new role women like herself play in this society. How does one affect the other? Well, my work as a journalist really contributes to my work as a writer, because as a journalist you re constantly out with curiosity, looking for stories, constantly.
So you find stories in places that are very unlikely; your mind learns to hear something and then finds the story in it, which another person may not always 7 Devidayal s books are published by Thomas Dunne Books and Random House. And after you find the story, you have to write it in a way that is not just a piece of journalistic news, but has a kind of narrative to it. The storytelling just becomes like a part of your routine work. I m not a reporter, so I don t do too much of daily news reporting at all.
So that s storytelling and you are looking for details, you re looking for things that really make a picture. That obviously helps in book writing because your mind has already these little pictures going on in your head, and at length you just learn to extrapolate from those for your book. Even though my book was based on another full story, I found that I was using a lot of little, little things that I had written as a journalist in that. I m not sure that writing contributes to my journalism, but they are very linked. I still visit my teacher, she is still alive and teaching other students, but she lives very far away from me, so I don t get there as much as I d like to.
But singing is a part of my life, and I m very much in that world. My son, who is eleven, has taken to music as well, he plays the violin and my husband is a jazz musician, blues musician, so there is a lot of music in our life. I was taking a course at Columbia University in New York and it was a creative writing class, so we did a lot of different writing, and then the last assignment was to write a first chapter of a book, any book.
And so I just sat down in front of my computer, and the chapter that emerged was the story of a little girl going to learn music and it was me, but I was writing it in third person. So that s when I went back to that and I actually started writing: from that. So that s how it all started, and then it was just a kind of flow, because there was so much in my head about all that from my childhood. My teacher told me so many stories that were so interesting A. Whom were you writing for? I was writing for somebody who knew very little about Indian Classical Music. So it was clearly not for a person who was already from that world, because I was telling a lot of things, I was explaining a lot of things, and I wanted to make it interesting for a person who knew nothing about Indian Classical Music, through storytelling and through the story of my teacher.
So it was a way of basically bringing that world alive to a lot of people who have no idea about it. Because in India lots of people are really very westernized now, they have no idea about these old traditions, it s a very small, closed world. Did you plan it from the beginning?
I ve never planned anything, it just kind of happened and this book was really as if God-written wild things were actually happening. I had no idea how it was going to end. Like, you know, there s that whole bit about going to the temple in Kolhapur, where I sing with my teacher, where she used to sing as a child. I had not planned that, but it all just happened. There was a very unusual kind of organic feeling about it. It was not the typical way of planning, when you sit down and write a book.
It was really like these things that I wrote with no idea about what was being written, other than the fact that I wanted it to be a story about music. It is not about me. In fact, I kept a kind of very thin narrative voice, I didn t want too much about my own life, because I m just like a narrator.
But, to make it interesting and alive, obviously, I also wanted to bring in my relationship with her, and what was happening in my life. But I didn t want to dwell too much on myself, because it s not very interesting for a reader. But a lot of people thought it would have been more interesting if I got it more personal. Actually it was very difficult because I had to reveal a lot of details that were very personal, and I knew that she was not pleased about that, but I did it anyway, because I knew that the larger picture was worth it.
So it was difficult because it was so intimate, you know, writing about things that happened in her life, or between us, or me saying how I used to lie to her, you know, things like that. There was so much that is so personal. But I also wrote it with humour, so that it became like very real like any kid going to a teacher does all these kinds of tricks.
She actually was very upset about a few details that she didn t want in there. That was my great advantage. But she basically trusts me. It all worked out in the end, because she got so much applause after the book came out she is a very reclusive person and after this book, the number of people that read it and wanted to go and meet her, or learn from her, or give her an award, or invite her to perform was just huge. So I think she realized that the book was something good for her. Her world is Marathi, so she was very clear that you can have it translated in Italian, English and Hindi and whatever other language, but not in Marathi, because that was her community.
I could have done it and have it done, but she It wasn t her own version of herself and she didn t want it out there. Do you feel more akin to one or the other? But they are very, very connected by music. That was like the whole point of this book, its aim was also to talk about how music was this kind of universal language that connected people from absolutely [different worlds] You know India 56 Now of course things are different, but in the past, someone from her background would never go and sit in a Muslim person s house.
So the very beautiful thing that happened through this is that music became this kind of incredible binding force. You know, I talk about this man, who is the grandson of the big Khansahib, the big musician, Muslim musician, who s her age. He was more like a brother to her, because of the musical connection, even closer to her than her own brother because of the music.
Even though he came from a completely different background, and they were not allowed to really interact, in those days. There still are divides, but it s not as strict as it was in those days. In those days, you have to understand that was a period were music, Indian Classical Music, had come to be considered a very cheap thing. So the people who were singing in those days were basically like entertainers. Music had lost its kind of glory, because there s a whole history for that the patronages had changed, and after the kings and all that went away, the patrons were these wealthy men in India who I mean, in cities like Bombay who would often treat these women singers, as, you know, women who were like So that was the period when Dhondutai was learning So, for her to go and learn with someone like Kesarbai, or even with someone like a Muslim, was just not done.
Today anyone can go and learn music, the respectability has come back. So I mean not in the last twenty, thirty years but at that time the arts were associated with something slightly cheap and degraded for a good fifty years. Do the other women in the book share the same attitude? I don t have visions or anything, but I m very connected. I considered music to be very closely linked to a kind of a spiritual experience. So, I think the vision for her was more a kind of like you know, I think when you live alone, and when you have these very strong beliefs in gods and everything, these things manifest.
But it s not like it was literal. Actually, I don t know if it really happened or not, that s not even the point, but she believed it did. It s a very personal experience you have, when you have a moment that is so special and powerful, that you experience something, see something that other people might not see. It was a clear professional and entertainment based thing, because she was an earning person. For her the music was a way to earn a living for herself and her family, because she came from that profession. So her approach to music was different.
It was about entertaining and creating an audience. Having said that, I think this music is so powerful that it takes you into other levels. Dhondutai s whole approach to music was very different, it was not about entertainment or about trying to please an audience. It was a personal journey, which was her own journey. So it was a very different approach. Did you find a way to bring this spiritual dimension of music to your son? Because, I really feel that there has to be something that is really ambience. You can send him to classes, which I do, but I want to imbibe him at a much deeper level.
So I try, but it s nowhere near to what I would like to do. Because I am not doing it myself, so it doesn t happen as naturally and beautifully as it should. My mother used to play a lot of music when we were growing up, so now I can recognize it and it is all still there. With him is very less so, but I try and I hope something comes in. He is musical, so maybe it won t be Indian Classical music, but he s got an open mind to music. You know how it happened? That s a nice story. So he got a violin and he goes here at the NCPA, where they follow the Suzuki method, and he s doing very well.
Western Music or Indian? I was 8 Le Corde dell anima Cremona in Festival. Devidayal was a guest with Beatrice Colin in May impressed by these biographies within the autobiography: how do they contribute to the main story? I mean, there are no lies or anything in it, but I did not check everything to find out whether that person actually wore those clothes at that particular moment, in that concert. So biography is not the right definition, but it is a biography, in a way it is. To me the most interesting thing about this book was that if you look at the three women, Kesarbai, Dhondutai and me, we are just completely from different worlds.
Dhondutai and I have absolutely nothing that would bring us together in our normal daily life. She comes from a very different background. Her world is very different from mine. Similarly, she and Kesarbai came from very different worlds, because Kesarbai was one of those professional singers, devadasi. But the music has been such a glue and such an amazing thing that it became a sort metaphor for the story of India, because India is filled with all these different kinds of communities and people, but something always brings them together, sometimes it s food, sometimes in this case is music and it s very special actually.
I am really grateful for it because it took me into a very different world from the one I live in, and that will stay with me for the rest of my life. It has really changed the way I think and see things. So, even though I stopped learning music many years ago, I still go back to Dhondutai, because she brings something into me which I don t get from the rest of my world a simplicity, a quietness. It s an interesting space.
I think it s so much more than music, the whole relationship between the teacher and the student is not so much about the actual skill that you are learning, it s really about bringing in a world view that is different from yours, because otherwise you 58 And this one just adds a dimension to your life, which is much more than just music. Are there any aesthetical resemblances between Indian Classical Music and the way you write? I d love to believe that there is a connection, but I don t know if there is.
I mean, I don t have consciously thought about it. Subconsciously, if something has come in, that may be, but frankly, no I tell you one thing though, actually yes, now that you mention it. It may have been a very unconscious thing that happened in The Music Room, which is, that you have noticed that it goes back and forth in time a lot, so you re in a moment and then it goes back into another past moment, and then it comes back into the present. That to me is very much a way Indian Music is all about, because everything about Indian Classical Music is like an oral tradition.
It s come down over years and years, right? So you are always finding this kind of thing that connects the past and the present. So it could be that that happened, but I really didn t think about it before I wrote it. But it s something that is very much there in that book. It sounded like the exposition of a theme and the rest like variations N.
It s based on my extended family stories. My family is a business family; so a lot of the characters and the stories come from real stories that I ve heard. Although out of my mind, I cannot weep. Perhaps someone can do it, or the mud. But, man, if you return, Do not speak of war To those who do not know; Do not speak of it where men And life still understand it. And if you can return, Take hold of a woman And one night, after being seized by kisses, Whisper to her that nothing in the world Can redeem what is lost Here of us, the putrefying corpses.
Bring a lump to her throat so that it chokes her: And if she loves you, You will come to learn this Later in life, or may be never. Povere le mosche senza fortuna! E ognuno guarda sereno come se fosse straniero al giuoco. Everything seems like summer, life crouching in the sun waiting for dusk. Still many soldiers in line behind the embankment.
Contemplation of the still air, and within it the stillness of appearances. Poor luckless lies! Hahn, a poet, essayist, and translator, has published ive volumes of his own poetry, most recently All Clear South Carolina and No Messages Notre Dame. La fantasia e la voce Maledetta, luttuosa fantasia che esige un cuore mite e anche feroce Fingi di averlo e levamela via: io voglio che mi avvolga la tua voce.
Cretino E mi fai saltellare sui ginocchi dicendo: Trotta, trotta cavallino; poi mani nelle mani, occhi negli occhi… Ti siedo sopra il cazzo. Che cretino! Mi fai male. Cetriolo Prendilo in mano. Mettitelo sopra, struscialo come fosse un cetriolo; usa me solo, lascia che ti copra tutta la vita in un minuto solo. Parole Ora lo sai: ho bisogno di parole. Devi imparare a amarmi a modo mio. Not for me. Too risky. Talk about jail-bait! Fantasy and Voice This is a doomed and mournful fantasy, seeking a heart both ierce and sweet. Then fake the feeling—free me from the dream: I want your voice to enwrap me.
Moron You make me hop up on your lap, you say, Giddy-up, giddy-up little horsy, gazing in my eyes and clutching my hands. Sit on my stick, you say. What a moron! Cucumber Hold it up, squeeze it in your hand, rub it like a cucumber; lose yourself in me, and let this instant be all you ever remember. Words I need words: now you know it. Learn to love me my way. The sick mind insists on it. He holds a Ph. Giancarlo Pontiggia Milano, ha pubblicato due raccolte poetiche Con parole remote, ; Bosco del tempo, , tre volumi di saggi Contro il Romanticismo.
Esercizi di resistenza e di passione, ; Selve letterarie, ; Lo stadio di Nemea, e un testo tea- trale Stazioni, Note on the translation Anne Schmid, a classical singer based in Switzerland, contacted me in the summer of to ask if I might be interested in help- ing her with a recording project she was working on at the time. Her aim was to craft an "Arcadian soundscape" by incorporating baroque cantatas, for instance, with other musical forms and poetic texts. The "Arcadian" poems were provided by Giancarlo Pontig- gia, who also wrote a sort of poetic essay regarding the presence of Arcadian themes in his works and practice, "La mia Arcadia.
To build the brief essay and accompanying translation into a fuller segment for Journal of Italian Translation, I contacted Pontiggia to ask if I might translate some of his poems properly-so-called as well, texts that might comfortably reside with his essay. He very generously passed along a suite of poems that had never before been published, gathered under the title Le muraglie del mondo. If my translations are sonorous at all, or incisive at all, or illu- mined at all, or even remotely worthy of Arcadia-infused pursuits, it is because my source materials and primary purposes of transla- tion were so inspiring and inspired, enlightening and enlightened.
He knows quite well that poetry is something that requires places of secrecy and suspense, gardens of the soul where common percep- tions are inverted through lipped perspectives. The locus of the Arcadian myth is one of poetic autonomasia, an interior landscape where every word deines its own metaphorical parameters, its own imaginable cor- respondences, its own initiatory rites.
Every poet has a personal Arcadia, one that is likely, if not necessarily informed by places of origin and primary encounters with the world—a place that can be both fascinating and disturb- ing, that can stun and surprise with the force of an unexpected apparition. Within such a fantastic yet very real world, we need not do anything more than write down the words that most clearly evoke how we experienced it, words that acted almost as mes- senger gods to convey intuited truths, and that continue to work within us as remembrances of things greater than we are. To what extent is Arcadia present in my poetry?
Regarding the term itself, it appears three times. I protagonisti, un vi- andante e un musico, dibattono sulla forma del tempo e sul senso della vita, mentre il vecchio millennio cede il passo al nuovo: alla visione quieta e apollinea del viandante, si oppone quella tragica, straziata del musico.
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Come nella prima ecloga virgiliana, due uomini si confrontano sui temi del destino e della storia da due fronti opposti, ma egualmente veri. Thus does Arcadia reveal itself to be, once more, that which it has always been: not a matter of evasion, but rather a lucid, pure, interiorized representation of life and its moments of greatest intensity. His verse translations, mainly from Italian and Latin, have appeared in his books and in journals such as Prairie Schooner, The Formalist, and the new renaissance.
Ezra Pound was born in Hailey, Idaho, but grew up in the suburbs of Philadelphia and became an early expatriate, living for extended periods in London, Paris, Rapallo, and Venice. One of the greatest twentieth-century poets, he was also a wide- ranging translator, theorist of Imagism and Vorticism, impresario of Modernism, trenchant literary critic, and indefatigable trumpeter of the genius of friends such as James Joyce and T. A series of speeches he made over Rome Radio during the war set the stage for his outdoor coninement in a steel cage at a U.
Elizabeths Hospital in Washington, DC, from which he was released in Pound believed this portion of the epic, sometimes styled the Nekuia, or Book of the Dead, was the oldest stratum of the poem and thus con- stituted a it opening to his own long poem on the vicissitudes of human civilization. Just as Divus and the Cretan brought the riches of ancient Greek literature to Renaissance readers who knew Latin but needed a handy trot to puzzle out the Greek, so in his introductory canto Pound makes accessible to modern readers of English a slice of cultural history that now must almost always be approached via translation or not all—and this, with varying degrees of success, is the chief project of the page museum- and anthology-like poem that follows.
A Note on the Translation Pound translated the bulk of Canto I into an English exhibit- ing an archaic cast in vocabulary and diction. The ocean lowing backward, came we then to the place Aforesaid by Circe. Here did they rites, Perimedes and Eurylochus, And drawing sword from my hip I dug the ell-square pitkin; Poured we libations unto each the dead, First mead and then sweet wine, water mixed with [white lour. Qui eseguirono riti, Perimede ed Euriloco, E sguainando la spada dal ianco Scavai il fossetto di un cubito quadro; Libagioni versammo ad ognun dei morti, Idromele e poi vino dolce, acqua mista con farina [bianca.
Poi pregai molte preghiere ai teschi infermi: Che tornato in Itaca, dei buoi migliori Sacriicherei, cumulando beni sulla pira, Una pecora solo per Tiresia, nera e da campano. But irst Elpenor came, our friend Elpenor, Unburied, cast on the wide earth, Limbs that we left in the house of Circe, Unwept, unwrapped in sepulchre, since toils urged other. Pitiful spirit. Lie quiet Divus. And he sailed, by Sirens and thence outward and away And unto Circe. Spirito pietoso. Dormii nella magione di [Circe. Ora zitto, Divus. Paolo Valesio is the author, among various other works, of seventeen books of poetry.
He is currently engaged in the parallel writing of a trilogy of journal-novels whose text by now runs to more than 20, manuscript pages. The poems of Spoleto, though sustained by description and narrative and set on the very real stage of the Umbrian city, seem nonetheless to take place in the mind. A walking exegesis, of sorts — at every encounter, every scene and object, the poet cocks his head and considers its symbolic resonance.
And where all is performance, all is interpretable. How will the exactitude be preserved? No equivalent exists! Which meanings will be sacriiced in the exchange? I thank Paolo Valesio for the challenge, and for his careful sugges- tions and explanations in the course of translating these works. Queste che nelle pagine verranno sono le scene di Spoleto su cui ancora medita, che ancora non ha afferrato. In Spoleto, they did not stroll, they ushered themselves from one strange occasion to another. Every nook a barren stage, still fresh with the litting ghosts of actors ghosts of ghosts who, in their leeing, left behind— on the stones and planks scattered through the city—the kernels of a mystery whose shells he could not crack; the fruit totters in his palm, in his gaze, impenetrable.
What follows in these pages are scenes from Spoleto still ixed in his mind, still ungrasped. Spoleto was where Francis grew ill, where he rose up and resumed his walk to Assisi— in Spoleto, he returned to his calling. And I, his unworthy follower my solitude is not sanctitude I, too, have my frail mind set on a return—but where to?
Discesero poi cauti una scaletta di legno lungo il muro di sinistra coi resti di un affresco — picchiettato come gli altri in quella conchiglia di chiesa da tante piccole chiazze di lebbra bianca — in cui si mostra il santo vescovo Tommaso Beckett e la sua morte. Le sue mani risaltano guantate inanellate sottili mani gotiche estenuate con dita affusolate ed elegantemente ripiegate: la destra blocca la benedizione in un gesto computatorio e la sinistra regge in tenue dandy-equilibrio, come stelo di un calice o gambo di un iore, la pastorale verga.
Respectfully, they stammered through four lines of Latin inscribed on a scroll beside the absence of an altar. His hands grace the foreground, gloved, bejeweled, slender, gothic hands with tapered ingers, elegantly curled: the right, captured bestowing a benediction, while the left upholds a crosier, pinching it daintily like the stem of a chalice or lower. His murderers approach, head-to-toe in plated armor even their faces visored, showing only slits of eyes.
Si sente a casa soltanto quando cammina impolverato e solo lungo certi isolati di Manhattan o quando sosta, celato nella folla di certi vestiboli: Stazione Gran Centrale, Museo Metropolitano, Centro Lincoln. Alza il velame. Born in Italy, as the records attest, and true to his native soil, nevertheless he knows himself a Renatus in New York, at home only when walking certain back roads of Manhattan, or lingering in the crush of certain vestibules: Grand Central Station, The Metropolitan Museum, Lincoln Center.
Spoleto, city of theatres: his days unfurl among curtains. He draws them back. Che cosa fa la mente con gli anni del peccato? Goodbye, Monteluco. Tutto in ordine, dunque — il paesaggio si adatta alla sua propria descrizione, si traveste da locus amoenus. What remains: the split path of mental labor the brain, braced for heaving sackfuls, for tilting bucketfuls. Or go hotly seeking their sense? Each hour in life must serve— even the stoniest even the muddiest— must pave the way to the Ascent of the Mountain.
Questo interno viaggio — nella sala che con gli ori i velluti gli affreschi si ribella contro il sole che invisibile da ogni parte assedia — li ha presi di vertigine. Escono sulla discensiva piazza del Duomo battendo palpebre di pipistrello. Noon Concert The harpsichord its lid with an apricot underside lined with pale olive green, in the Empire style retreats on little wheels, well-tempered and invisible, reversing on a parallel through the curtain backdrop: a wood that fast transcends niche and statue to become forest, with a lightning scene.
This internal voyage — in a room that with its golds, velvets, and frescoes rebels against the invisible siege of the circling sun — struck them with vertigo. They exit down the sloping cathedral square, licking their littermouse eyelids. Diderot, The Paradox of Acting Little heaven with an arch of its frescoed ceiling grazing our heads: the loggione at Caio Melisso.
Poi, il buio; ma presto si rivela la luce, doppiamente artiiciale, della scena denudata, al segnale degli orchestrali in basso. Then, darkness; but soon, a sign from the orchestra pit and a light reveals itself, doubly artiicial, on an empty stage. E intanto alla tarda delle otto il tramonto mantiene un suo orlo sontuoso sottonube e minaccia un altro lusso: quello della tempesta. Meanwhile, nearing nine, the sunset holds its hem, cloud-covered and sumptuous, threatening a further luxury: a storm. Though as it stands, it seems well satisied, having hurled that lightning-cross at the house, which, for all we know, may not have been a church before it struck.
The day is red, but in its passing the only worthwhile politic is that of contemplation. Pressing the heels of his hands into the spheres of his eyes, the disc between sound and noise suspends and transforms into a darkness framed in calmness— austerity, no less, a calling to clearer than the stroke of any bell.
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But the wind leaps, loops and overturns: the land, liberated, repairs to its plenitude of sky. Phonic As the hart panteth after the water brooks so panteth my soul after thee, O God. The fawn returns to its spring: a second time, the Psalm is sounded— the irst, at the concert of the Flagellants, the third, to come in two days— leaping off the tabulated page of an enormous volume, bound in corrugated leather, a chain for a bookmark, perched on a damask-draped lectern at the center of a grand basement, like the pillar of a destiny.
Umbri volti affratellati: i visi forestieri sono cari sorelle improbabili, fratelli i volti dei propri cari, sono laceranti. A fold of Umbrian faces: the grins of guests are dear improbable sisters, brothers while those most dear to us injure in appearance. But the empathy of the eye is insuficient— an alibi for a heart detached from spirit; such virtue can be measured only plumbing a pool of mud.
Lambent tongue, like a deer in a rushing stream, plangent lame. She gradu- ated in foreign languages and literature at Pisa university, where she attended a post-degree course in literary translation of postco- lonial texts in English. She also contributed to the volume Canto un mondo libero. She currently teaches English language and literature at an upper secondary school and works as a translator.
Andrea Sirotti was born in Florence, where he teaches English language and literature. He has recently begun working as a freelance literary scout and editorial advisor. In the Uk he published stories in Darker Times and Panurge and he has published poetry in Italian and English in this journal. He recently completed a collection of stories and novellas entitled The Melting Point which he is trying to ind a publisher for.
These two stories are taken from that collection. In addition to writing he also pursues music, having recorded an EP of original songs Floto- We Specialize in Broken Dreams, available on itunes , and he is a keen amateur pianist. He can be contacted at baretbmagarian hotmail. They rested for a few minutes, only to succumb to gravity again.
By the time they did, a shaft of sunlight pierced the cloudy, ilmy lines and something exotic crept into her nostrils, an aroma of something half forgotten. She was ready for her dance with the world, she was shining and beaming, a newly minted coin. The trees made way for her, passers-by admired her from near and from far. They smiled at her nonchalance, they tried to guess her age, whether or not she had any interesting birthmarks, or was hiding the insignia of childbirth or loss, whether or not she had a husband or boyfriend, whether she was a iery lover or a passionless one.
See if you can catch me! At a street corner life leapt at her like a newly released cat, claws exposed. I need sequins, raisins, spices from Morocco, French wines. What would they say if they saw me tailspinning out of control, intravenous needles hanging from me, would I be like that astronaut from as he enters the star gate, perpetually glazed eyes? When was I really me? And what would it take to make me lose myself? Era pronta per la sua danza col mondo, era splendente e radiosa, come una moneta nuova di zecca. Lavata, pulita, profumata, ho i capelli immacolati, la pelle porosa e gli occhi luminescenti.
Vediamo se mi prendete! Ho bisogno di lustrini, uvetta, spezie del Marocco, vini fran- cesi. Cosa direbbero se mi vedessero precipitare senza controllo, con aghi di lebo che mi penzolano addosso? Reine de joie par Victor Joze That bit of French caught her attention. She came to a standstill in front of a window pane. Behind the window was another pane of glass, all around this was a wooden frame, underneath it all there was a poster. Grace and squalor were combined as the slightly emaciated woman with a skeletal arm planted a somehow tender kiss on the nose of the old, bald, half sleeping fatty with the bloated belly.
The woman looked in- nocent despite it all with her neck wrapped in a brown ribbon and her red dress. Had she ever really looked at a poster or a painting, she thought? Had she ever really noticed its contents? Later, in the evening in her lat, outside which vines crept upwards, inside which cat smells spread, she was in the kitchen mixing spaghetti and a sauce she had carelessly prepared. In her hand, on and off, a goblet of red wine. In her mouth, on and off, a rolled-up cigarette. In her eyes a far off look. She was thinking of that Toulouse-Lautrec print and how nice it would have looked next to her book case which was not full of books at all, but magazines about furniture, motor bikes, graphics, landscape gardening, tree surgeons, lingerie, package holidays, mountaineering.
Quando mai son stata me stessa? E cosa ci vuole per farmi perdere? Forse se mi capitasse un incidente veramente brutto, se fossi pugnalata da uno sconosciuto, se bevessi una bottiglia di brandy liscio Aveva mai guardato prima un poster o un dipinto? Aveva mai fatto veramente caso al suo contenuto? Nella mano appariva e scompariva un calice di vino rosso. Nella bocca appariva e scompariva una sigaretta autoprodotta. Aveva uno sguardo assente negli occhi. Pensava a quella stampa di Toulouse-Lautrec e a come sarebbe stata bene accanto alla libreria che non era per nulla piena di libri, ma di riviste.
Riviste di computer, di arredamento, di motociclismo, di cartoni animati, di graica, di giardinaggio, di arte topiaria, di biancheria intima, di pacchetti vacanze, di alpinismo. In her dreams that night she entered the Toulouse-Lautrec poster, or rather, its essence turned into a scenario she became part of.
The clientele was an elegant one, dressed in velvet, in capes, and dinner jackets, dressed like the three igures in the painting. She regarded them from a stool at the bar and sipped a glass of absinthe. On turning her attention to the bar again she knew that the old fat slob was expecting a kiss from her now, the very same kiss she had seen her counterpart in the poster plant on his nose. A tall man in a top hat licked a pair of dandyish black gloves across her hands until she inally had to relent.
As she kissed him everything altered. She was aware of the sounds of the ocean. A blue sea ebbed and pulsed with virile life. When she woke up groggily the next morning she had for- gotten about the dream but then it came back to her as she sipped a cup of weak Earl Grey tea. In the evening she was reading, her eyeglasses slowly slip- ping down her nose.
La clientela era elegante, portava abiti di velluto, mantelline e abiti da sera, era vestita proprio come le tre igure nel dipinto. Un mare azzurro che si alzava e pulsava di vita virile. Avrebbe potuto permettersi di comprarlo, non era quello il punto; stava cominciando a pensare che rubarlo avrebbe rappresentato una sorta di vittoria sulla vita, un atto di sida necessaria. Quella sera stava leggendo, e gli occhiali le scivolavano lentamente sul naso. On his way there he comes across a fresh loaf of bread lying on the road. It still lies in its wrapping. For a moment he hesitates.
Should he pick up the loaf and so save himself a visit to the bakery? Or should he go through with his original plan? In the end he decides to pick up the loaf of bread, which lies in the middle of the road. As he leans over to pick it up he is run over by a bus. By a miracle the loaf stays undamaged. As an ambulance arrives a man turns up and seeing the bread takes it home and eats it. Afterwards she kept thinking about it. She rang a friend, his name was Gilbert, he was extremely myopic and owned a pet snake.
That ends that. Or maybe the second man gets away with taking the loaf of bread because he never had the intention of going to the bakery as the irst man had, which leads me to the second interpretation: the irst man betrayed his original impulse, and by so doing, created a new problem for himself. What do you think? Per un istante esita. Deve raccogliere il pane per risparmiarsi la visita al forno? O deve continuare a perseguire il suo proposito originale? Alla ine decide di raccogliere lo silatino in mezzo alla strada.
Mentre si china per raccoglierlo viene investito da un autobus. Per puro miracolo, la pagnotta rimane intatta. Che ne pensi tu, Gilbert? She stayed awake until 4 am, reading and drinking wine. She was by then so drunk that if someone had pricked her with a sewing needle she would have felt nothing.
Her limbs were relaxed and inert and her eyes glazed and bloodshot. She rummaged around for an empty bottle of Glenmorangie, a fairly hefty bottle which she had always kept for sentimental reasons. She stuffed it inside her overcoat and began to walk to the shop drunkenly. She stopped a few feet away from the shop and looked around her. The street was deserted and quiet. The moon seemed to be burning up the sky.
Slowly she removed the bottle from her overcoat and crept towards the shop. Gripping the bottle tightly she looked at the poster, admiring it more than ever, its inesse, its subtlety. She scrutinised the pane of glass, judging it to be quite limsy, no match for the bottle of Glenmorangie. The resulting alarm would probably be dismissed by those awaking to its vile whining as a malfunction. She steadied herself, took aim and hurled the bottle, and it became a missile. The glass shattered with shocking loudness. A little bit stunned, she scrambled towards the display, avoiding the shards of glass now showered across the pavement.
It was only then that she noticed no alarm was sounding. A second later a dog started barking insanely. She grabbed the poster, which was small enough to it under her sprawling overcoat. But nothing, no one. She was back at her lat in a matter of minutes and on her way there she encountered no one. It was done.
The world had hardly even batted an eyelid. When she got home from the surgery she breathed a sigh of relief and stared at the poster. Dopo un calice di vino rosso lei concluse che avrebbe dovuto rubare il poster. Rimase sveglia ino alle quattro del mattino, a leggere e bere vino. I suoi arti erano rilassati e inerti e i suoi occhi vitrei e iniettati di sangue. La strada era deserta e silenziosa. La luna bruciava feroce nel cielo color inchiostro. Solo allora si accorse che non suonava alcun allarme. Ma niente, nessuno. Era fatta. Il mondo non aveva quasi battuto ciglio.
There was a new pane of glass there, thicker. But now, rather than giving her pleasure, each time she looked at the poster, she felt pangs of guilt. Eventually she wrapped it up, shoved it in a parcel, and mailed it back to the shop with an anonymous apology. She was reading an article about Japanese gardens, in the oven vegetable moussaka was cooking, on a little table stood her goblet of red wine.
She was back to normal, she had practically forgotten the whole thing. Then the phone rang. It was Gilbert. Why not in a dustbin? Non riusciva a credere di averlo fatto. Era Gilbert. Il primo tizio vuole uno silatino, ne vede uno per strada, viene messo sotto; il secondo tizio vede lo silatino, lo prende e lo mangia, giusto? And he was just coming back to claim what was rightfully his? Eventually she went back to the shop and was greatly relieved to see the poster in its frame back in its original spot in the window. He responded to her generosity by taking special care when wrapping it up, tying it in a single brown curling ribbon.
Once she was the rightful and legal owner, clutching it proudly, the fog in her brain inally lifted and life took on a new clarity. As she walked she felt the irst intimations of spring. She stopped in the middle of a quiet street, where hardly any cars passed. Looking around furtively as though she was about to carry out another crime she laid the poster down gently in the middle of the road. Then she walked home.
Ed era semplicemente tornato a riprendersi quello che era legit- timamente suo. Una volta divenuta la legittima proprietaria, stringendolo con orgoglio, la nebbia nel cervello inalmente sollevata, la sua vita assunse una nuova chiarezza. Poi si diresse verso casa. That underwater world was as rich and variegated as the one above. In three they went and they had no need of words, just gestures and signals that they all instinctively understood.
Eve- rything down there was disembodied, slow moving, the divers were shadowy, stripped of their faces, hidden behind masks, their skin hidden behind diving suits, their mouths concealed by their breathing apparatus, oxygen cylinders turning their backs bumpy and rounded. The odd refraction of light; soundwaves quelled by the cushioning glory of water and unimpeded space.
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Shoals of ish darted this way and that, undisturbed by the three divers, who watched them in fascination. Every now and then a weirdly shaped ish, a tapered apparition rolled and passed by and then twos and threes followed, perfect replicas of one another, clones, recurring moments; their gauzy, distorted forms made the divers think the sea contained more mysteries than any earthly realm. The truths and feelings to be found down there could not be communicated to anyone who had not been down there, in that dark, luminous abyss, that abstract underwater garden.
One of the drivers pointed to a distended shell, half-hidden by a faintly glowing shrub. The shrub seemed to be coated in a phospherescent substance and the tallest of the trio extracted the shell, which resembled a human ear stretched into weird plastic- ity. It sank from end to end like an overburdened rope bridge. The shell was promptly set down in an underwater case where it took its place with a hundred others like it and yet different.
Later on those shells, small, large, odd, intricate, gaudy, plain, would be glued together to create mosaics, mosaics that depicted scenes from Greek mythology. The works went on show at the Mediterranean Art Gallery in the small town of Caphos on the Island and they usually attracted quite a lot of attention and plaudits. Quel mondo sottomarino era ricco e va- riegato quanto quello soprastante. In tre andavano e non avevano bisogno di parole, solo di gesti e segnali che tutti loro istintivamente capivano. Sprofondava da lato a lato come un ponte di corda sovraccarico. He also ran a taverna with Dora, his wife and fellow diver who was loating close by him.
She reached out an ungloved hand to touch the skin-like surface of the shell. She smiled through her mask and the couple executed a little dance of triumph. As they did so Kirsten, who was the youngest of the trio, felt a little displaced from them. They, after all, were bound by marital vows and the activity of their loins. Kirsten had no such connection to another human soul and she was wary of people. Only in the sea, in its underwater chambers, in its caress- ing, silent embrace, did she feel truly complete, truly whole and peaceful. Up there, in the earthly world, in the terrestrial shell of noise and strife life was heavy, and people made no sense, with their changing patterns of behaviour, contradictory, selish, and sometimes downright cruel.
The divers began to rise, drifting upwards like elongated shadows of birds borne skywards. They passed great gold corru- gated leaves of macro-algae, moving slowly up and down like giant feather fans, palpitatingly alive. As the divers spiralled upwards towards the shimmering ceiling of light small ish with black and yellow vertical stripes imitated the arc of their movements, almost as though setting up some wondrous homage to their human coun- terparts.
Then the ish sped away, gone, vanishing into the secret places only they knew how to reach. The divers, one by one, glided up to their little diving boat, and climbed up over the side by means of a small metallic ladder, removing their gear and breathing apparatus and placing it all on the stern. The sun was setting and the air was full of the heady vivid sensations of summer. Overhead the sky was beginning to fade to a pinkish red glow. The moon was already visible and Kirsten spied it with her furtive, shy eyes. How different this scene was to those of her childhood and teenage years, before she had come to embrace her new Mediterranean life.
In the past summer had only ever been at best a tepid affair, in England, where the temperature never rose above the twenties and where the sky was more often than not a screen of clouds and greyness. In England where were the beautifully tanned people, with their miraculously well pro- portioned igures and Grecian elegance and love of life?
Gestiva anche una taverna con Dora, sua moglie e compagna di immersioni, che gli luttuava vicino. Kirsten non aveva un rapporto del genere con un altro animo umano e difidava delle persone. I subacquei cominciarono a risalire, trascinandosi su come ombre allungate di uccelli diretti verso il cielo. Mentre i subacquei salivano a spirale verso lo scintillante sofitto di luce, piccoli pesci a strisce verticali nere e gialle imitavano i loro movi- menti arcuati, quasi a preparare un qualche mirabile omaggio alle loro controparti umane.
Poi i pesci ilarono via, lontano, sparendo nei luoghi segreti dove soltanto loro sapevano arrivare. She preferred this richer, more luscious backdrop, its subtle light, dying now, but all the more beautiful and poignant for it, the endless surface of the sea, ever changing, ever moving, but always a harbinger of calm and joy, the tiny vantage point afforded by their boat, and the salt air, which seemed to hold all the textures of life in its invisible embrace.
They started making their way back to shore, silent and slightly overwhelmed as they tended to be after a dive. Kirsten said goodbye to the couple and walked over to her Volkswagen Beetle, dusty and battered in the sandy driveway that led down to the beach. As a child she had always been accumulat- ing bruises and blisters and seemed to have a knack for harming herself, bumping her head, scraping her knee caps, falling off slides and breaking her wrist, her hip, her nose.
Underwater everything was lighter, friction was robbed of its power to hurt, weight was dissipated. Maybe that was why she loved to dive … She drove back to the village, where she was staying at a villa that the parents of her friend Melissa had bequeathed to her for a few days. The villa contained worlds of old style grace, illed with ethereal pleasures that only Kirsten she liked to think was allowed to taste. From outside the simple beauty of the indigo blue wooden front door with no lock, just a latch, tantalisingly hinted at the magical dimensions of what lay beyond its threshold.
The door remained without a lock because the locals and the village still existed in a universe of guilelessness. In Caphos everything slowed down, buses were late, coffee was sipped rather than swallowed, the souvlaki was cooked slowly, the hours passed slowly and it did not matter because either the sun or the sea or something ensured that purposefulness could be discarded and it was ine to do abso- lutely nothing and yet somehow it was never boring or oppressive. Life could be lived merely by observing, meditating, being. Sebbene non capisse le persone, quantomeno preferiva quelle vive e decise a godersi la cosa.
La villa conteneva mondi di grazia vecchio stile, colmi di eterei piaceri che soltanto a Kirsten amava pensare lei era permes- so gustare. Si poteva vivere la vita semplicemente osservando, meditando, essendo. She strove to become one with the water, to move in tireless, perfect patterns as each stroke, each length she managed became a better and better embodiment of technique and elegance. There, in that midnight shrine, outside, as she loated on her back, looking up, she peered into the basin of the night sky and the constellations and clusters of stars were freckles on the face of the universe.
Here was the perfection she had dreamed of: a silky, almost erotic abundance of water, her own form dissolving, melting into it, almost becoming water in all its protean freedom, the natural scene around, where stones and lowers existed in symbiotic, breathheld harmony, as though reality had become an etched painting, and the vacuum of utter silence, far far away from noise and people. She swam in wonder and gratitude as the night reached out and made love to her. Further off, walking away from the sea -- a complex of new, ugly apartments which had just been built. Kirsten hated them. Far, far off, away in the distance, the wreck of a ship was embedded into the horizon.
A Turkish freighter with a cargo of timber had got stuck on the twisted rocks some fourteen years earlier and there it sat, a rusty, static monolith of steel and decay. Tourists sighted it and wondered why it was always there day after day and never shifted until someone pointed out that it would never move again. Vicino alla riva mucchi di scogli formavano minuscole isole che catturavano la luce del sole; i bambini vi si arrampicavano, i genitori si allungavano su di loro. In lontananza, venendo via dal mare, un complesso di appartamenti nuovi, brutti, appena costruiti.
Kirsten li odiava. She stared at it for hours and some- times shuddered as its dark form became symbolic of pure evil. An unmoving malevolent presence that, as the shadows of night gathered, became even darker and evocative of damnation. The perpetual stasis of this great decomposing entity seemed truly to carve an incision in the sea.
When Kirsten drove her car along the dust road, running parallel to the beach, but at an elevated point, she would always look out for the shipwreck. And it never failed to appear, it always came round eventually and in a way it had become part of the sea, even as it tarnished it, ensnared by the rocks with which it had begun to fuse. Kirsten began to feel that in that shipwreck the secret of life lay hidden and gradually it occurred to her that she must somehow confront that shipwreck, come face to face with it. One windy night when the moon was almost full she took out the little diving boat and gradually drifted all the way out towards the shipwreck, afraid and uncertain of what she would ind there but she knew that confronting her fear would bring her some kind of peace.
She half-expected to see grinning corpses. And since even in Paradise itself, the tree of knowledge was placed in the midle of the Garden, whatever was the ambient figure, there wanted not a centre and rule of decussation. Grierson, Oxford University Press, Oxford , p. Romano e A. Tenenti, Einaudi, Torino , p. Lanza, Bulzoni, Roma , vol.
Viri Antonii Magliabechi Bartholini Bargensi, ex Officina Huguetana, Lugduni , p. Lanza, Salerno, Roma , p. Barocchi, Ricciardi, Milano-Napoli , vol. III, p. Salza, Laterza, Bari , p. Bellocchi, Aedes Muratoriana, Modena , p. Allen, Random House, New York , p. E si veda J. Bianchi, in ID. Bianchi, C. Salinari, N. Sape- Cap. Ma si veda anche anche A.
Francioni e S. Romagnoli, Bollati Boringhieri, Torino , vol. Per questa terminologia cfr. Appunti sulla riformulazione rinascimentale di un genere classico, in ID. Studi sul Rinascimento, Tirrenia Stampatori, Torino , pp. Antonelli, La Nuova Italia, Firenze , p. Per una rassegna degli autori classici e medioevali che impiegano il topos cfr.
Sul paesaggio omerico si veda E. Salinari e N. Sapegno, in ID. Sul giardino di Pomena si veda M. RAJA, Le muse in giardino. Fabula di Orfeo, a cura di S. Carrai, Mursia, Milano , pp. I, 82 sgg. Pozzi, Mondadori, Milano , vol. VI, , VII, e Teatro, arte, giardini nella letteratura italiana, Bovolenta, Ferrara , pp. Scrittori in giardino, il Mulino, Bologna Pasquini e A. Quaglio, Garzanti, Milano , pp. Marti, Rizzoli, Milano , vol. Guiraud, Les Belles Lettres, Paris , pp. Caravaggi, Einaudi, Torino , p. III, pp.
Anceschi, Garzanti, Milano , vol. Delcorno Branca, Marsilio, Venezia , pp. Su questa canzone a ballo si veda G. Tissoni Benvenuti, Laterza, Bari , p. IX, 95 sgg. Arnaldi, L. Gualdo Rosa, L. Monti Sabia, Ricciardi, Milano-Napoli , p. Maier, Rizzoli, Milano , vol. Orlandi, introduzione e note di P. Portoghesi, voll. Granger, Harvard University 78 Cap. Il Quattrocento, a cura di F. Fiore, Electa, Milano , pp. VIII, by W. Ma si veda anche il secondo libro, ivi, vol. I, by H. Rackham, , pp. Napoli, ], vol. Materia medica in due dialoghi umanistici, in ID.
Le pagine letterarie dedicate ai bagni, tuttavia, non si limitano a trasferire gli argomenti medici sul versante lessicologico e antiquario. E quivi posto reverentemente per discreti famigli alcuni cipriani tapeti e sopra epsi ogni omo postosi frater89 Cfr. Basile, Salerno, Roma , pp. Garin, Ricciardi, Milano-Napoli , p. Mos est mulieribus, cum viri desuper eas prospectant, iocandi gratia stipem petere. Itaque proiciuntur nummuli, et quidem pulchrioribus, quos illae partim manibus excipiunt, partim, linteis extensis, altera alteram propellens; quo in ludo etiam quaeque corporis occultiora deteguntur.
Archetipi e paradossi di villa e giardino 1. Come dice Stazio del felice proprietario della villa: [ Mozley, Harvard University Cap. Sapegno, Ricciardi, Milano-Napoli , p. BEK, Ut ars natura - Ut natura ars. Bartholini Bargensi, ex Officina Huguetana, Lugduni , pp. Spagnoli], Villa Refrigerii, in ID. Quaglio, Garzanti, Milano , p. Garin, Ricciardi, Milano-Napoli , pp. Discorsi sopra la prima Deca di Tito Livio.
Dalle Legazioni, a cura di R. London , vol. Sulla funzione modellizzante del Crescenzi si veda M. Non a caso il Doni, che suddivide il 33 Cfr. Forma e ideologia, traduzione di P. Tordella, Einaudi, Torino , p. De Marchi, Garzanti, Milano , p. Landor [ III, Situazioni momenti indagini, vol. IV, Forme e modelli, Einaudi, Torino , p. Forma e ideologia, cit. Marchant — Symposium and Apology, with an English translation by O. Su questo dialogo si veda R.
Berra, Cisalpino La Goliardica, Milano , pp. Sub tecta ingressi in dubio sint, malintque animi gratia istic residere, ubi sint, an ulteriora petere, quorum hilaritate ac nitore provocentur. Ex quadrangulis areis rotundas, ex rotundis rursus angulares, ex his in eas progressus detur, quae neque totae rotundae neque lineis omnibus rectis concludantur. Cumque ad sinum interiorem domus inieris, non aderit ubi gradum descendisse oporteat; verum in ultimum usque conclave aut aequabili solo aut limitibus modicis penetrabitur.
Quidam choreis gaudent; cantant quidam; plurimi pila ludunt, non equidem more nostro, sed viri ac mulieres pilam tintinnabulis plenam alter ad alterum et quidem dilectiorem proiciunt; tum concurritur undique ad illam excipiendam; qui eam capit potior habetur; isque iterum proicit eam ad personam sibi acceptiorem, cum illam multi petant porrectis manibus; atque ipse modo ad hunc, modo ad illam simulet se iacturum.
Multi praeter hos ioci fiunt, quos longum esset recensere. Hos autem rettuli ut ex paucis comprehendas quanta hic sit schola Epicureae factionis; atque hunc locum illum esse credo in quo primum hominum creatum ferunt, quem Ganeden Hebraei vocant: hoc est hortum voluptatis. Bausi, Olschki, Firenze , pp. Heurgon, Les Belles Lettres, Paris , pp. V, by H. Forster and E. Grayson, Laterza, Bari , vol. Magagnato e P. Marini, introduzione di L. Magagnato, Edizioni Il Polifilo, Milano , p. Nunc cerne iugum discentia saxa intrantesque domos iussumque recedere montem.
E si veda A. DOLe ville, cit. Medium spatium brevioribus utrimque platanis adornatur. Post has acanthus hinc inde lubricus et flexuosus, deinde plures figurae pluraque nomina. Branca e M. Pastore Stocchi, Olschki, Firenze , pp. Roncaglia, Libreria Palmaverde, Bologna , p. Sulla ripresa di questa disposizione antica nei giardini rinascimentali e barocchi cfr. VI, col. No pleasing Intricacies intervene, No artful wildness to perplex the scene; Grove nods at grove, each Alley has a brother, And half the platform just reflects the other.
Davis, with a new Introduction by Cap. Si veda anche, sul giardinaggio, ID. Su Andrew Jackson Downing cfr. While the component parts may defy, individually, the highest skill of the artist, the arrangement of these parts will always be susceptible of improvement. In truth, while that virtue which consists in the mere avoidance of vice appeals directly to the understanding, and can thus be circumscribed in rule, the loftier virtue which flames in creation, can be apprehended in its results alone.
Rule applies but to the merits of denial — to the excellencies which refrain. Beyond these the Cfr. Si veda J. Kommentiert von E. Trunz und B. Sul tema del giardinaggio nel romanzo si veda R. Alter domui proximus et aspectu cultior et dilectus est Bromio; hic, mirum dictu, rapidissimi ac pulcerrimi amnis in medio est, iuxta quem brevi tantum ponte disiuncta, ultima domus in parte, testudi vivis ex lapidibus curvata suspenditur, que nunc celo ardente sentiri vetat estatem.
Sulla figura edenica in questi racconti cfr. Neri - G. Martellotti - E. Bianchi - N. Sapegno, Ricciardi, MilanoNapoli , pp. III, 1 e 3 ; sulle quali cfr. Sui giardini di Petrarca cfr. Il giardino medievale, Laterza, Roma , pp. When therefore, we see this imitated in any measure, it gives us a noble and more exalted kind of Pleasure than what we receive from the nicer and more accurate Productions of Art. On this account our English Gardens are not so entertaining to the Fancy as those in France and Italy, where we see a large Extent of Ground covered over with an agreeable mixture of Garden and Forest, which represent every where an artificial Rudeness, much more charming than that Neatness and Elegancy which we meet with in those of our own Country.
They chuse rather to shew a Genius in works of this Nature, and therefore always conceal the Art by which they direct themselves. Our Trees rise in Cones, Globes, and Pyramids. We see the Marks of the Scissars upon every Plant and Bush. Proprio qui [ Capone - P. Lanzara - M. Venturi Ferriolo, Guerini e Associati, Milano , pp. II Classe di Scienze morali e letterarie , p. Quattro belle stanze quadrate [ Per Chiswick House si veda J. Quando Varrone pone al Cfr. Livre III, cit. KERN, Labirinti. Forme e interpretazioni: anni di presenza di un archetipo.
Manuale e filo conduttore, tr. Hutchinson, a new edition, corrected by G. A Fragment, in ID. Coleridge, ivi, , pp. Story Donno, Penguin Books, Harmondsworth , p. Garrod, Oxford University Press, Oxford , p. Borel, Gallimard, Paris , p. Si veda C. Machado, in ID. I, rispettivamente p. Sanguineti, Einaudi, Torino , p. Indagini e letture, Einaudi, Torino , pp. Il moderno Cap. Pirandello, Si gira Materiali 1, a cura di A.
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Gentili et al. Romano e C. Vivanti, vol. V, I documenti, t. II, Einaudi, Torino , pp. Materiali 1, cit. Castex, vol. Essais critiques IV, Seuil, Paris , pp. Materiali 3, a cura di A. Gentili et. Come pensiamo le immagini, tr. La ressemblance me laisse insatisfait, et comme sceptique [ Alia ex parte, uti ajunt vox voci, nasus naso, et ejusmodi in toto civium numero similis reliquorum nullus invenietur. Adde, et vultus eorum, quos pueros videramus, subinde factos adolescentes cognovimus et quos eosdem juvenes videris, nunc factos senes etiam, dignoscas, cum tantam per aetatem eos inter vultus secuta in dies lineamentorum sit diversitas: ut statuisse possimus, in ipsis formis corporum haberi nonnulla, quae momentis temporum varientur, aliquid vero insitum atque innatum penitus adesse, quod perpetuo ad similitudinem generis constans atque immutabile perseveret, quas res hic sequi longum et fortasse ab re esset.
Tum quis hoc, nisi qui experitus sit, crediderit usque adeo esse difficile, cum velis ridentes vultus effigiare, vitare id ne plorabundi magis quam alacres videantur? Tum vero et quis poterit sine maximo labore, studio et diligentia vultus exprimere, in quibus et os et mentum et oculi et genae et frons et supercilia in unum ad luctum aut hilaritatem conveniant?
Non mancano infatti esempi di decomposizione del ritratto, in letteratura, che con gradi e forme diverse tendono a neutralizzare o perforare la sua superficie convenzionale. Versini, Gallimard, Paris , p. Lo spettro del volto sfigurato, insomma, non corrisponde ancora a una crisi del soggetto. Tous ses boutons pourris devenus noirs suppuraient, et in- 19 Cfr. Materiali 3, cit. Il petto si sollevava di quando in quando, con un respiro affannoso; la destra, fuor della cappa, lo premeva vicino al cuore, con uno stringere adunco delle dita, livide tutte, e sulla punta nere.
Ivi, pp. Chiari e F. Ghisalberti, Mondadori, Milano , vol. II, t. Del Litto, Gallimard, Paris , vol. VI, , pp. VII, , p. Tu le vois? On ne me permet pas de me regarder dans un miroir Je ne reconnais ni ses yeux, ni sa bouche! IX, , p. VIII, , p. IV, Gallimard, Paris , pp. Anche qui la persona fotografata riesce a mascherare i segni della malattia e della morte con un travestimento: [ I, , pp. III, , pp. Quelle noblesse! II, , p. E cfr. Note sur la photo44 Cap. IV, , p. Primero, hubo un temblor. Il Tempo impedisce infatti la fissazione definitiva della figura, la disgrega, rendendo impossibile ogni effetto di rassomiglianza reale o immaginaria, svelando dietro la maschera del volto un cerimoniale funebre.
IX, pp. Per un commento a questa pagina cfr. Icone e interni del testo, il Mulino, Bologna , pp. Per un commento di questa pagina cfr. CHEProust et la photographie, cit. Il ritratto diventa dunque Su questo ritratto cfr. Nous ne la reconnaissons pas. Barocchi, vol. II, Laterza, Bari , p. Before she had receded a hundred yards he felt certain that it was Avice indeed; and his unifying mood of the afternoon was now so intense that the lost and the found Avice seemed essentially the same person.
Their external likeness to each other — probably owing to the cousinship between the elder and her husband — went far to nourish the fantasy. Pierston stood as in a dream. It was the very she, in all essential particulars, and with an intensification of general charm, who had 81 Cfr.
When he turned his head from the window his eyes fell again upon the intermediate Avice at his side. Before but the relic of the Well-Beloved, she had now become its empty shrine. Warm friendship, indeed, he felt for her; but whatever that might have done towards the instauration of a former dream was now hopelessly barred by the rivalry of the thing itself in the guise of a lineal successor. Did he really wish to proceed to marriage with this chit of a girl? He did: the wish had come at last.
It was true that as he studied her he saw defects in addition to her social insufficiencies [ But twenty years make a difference in ideals, and the added demands of middle-age in physical form are more than balanced by its concessions as to the spiritual content. He looked at himself in the glass, and felt glad at those inner deficiencies in Avice which formerly would have impelled him to reject her.
Pensiamo al na84 85 Ivi, p. Unexpected physiognomies will uncover themselves at these times in well-known faces; the aspect becomes invested with the spectral presence of entombed and forgotten ancestors; and family lineaments of special or exclusive cast, which in ordinary moments are masked by a stereotyped expression and mien, start up with crude insistence to the view. Cope opposite, was naturally enough much regarded by the curate during the tedious sail home; at first with sympathetic smiles.
Then, as the middle-aged father and his child grew each gray-faced, as the pretty blush of Frances disintegrated into spotty stains, and the soft rotundities of her features diverged from their familiar and reposeful beauty into elemental lines, Cope was gradually struck with the resemblance between a pair in their discomfort who in their ease presented nothing to the eye in common. Millborne and Frances in their indisposition were strangely, startlingly alike.
He forgot to smile at Frances, to hold her hand; and when they touched the shore he remained sitting for some moments like a man in trance. As they went homeward, and recovered their complexions and contours, the similarities one by one disappeared, and Frances and Mr.
Millborne were again masked by the commonplace dif- Cap. It was as if, during the voyage, a mysterious veil had been lifted, temporarily revealing a strange pantomime of the past. Nature, that great tragic dramatist, knits us together by bone and muscle, and divides us by the subtler web of our brains; blends yearning and repulsion; and ties us by our heart-strings to the beings that jar us at every movement.
We hear a voice with the very cadence of our own uttering the thoughts we despise; we see eyes — ah! The father to whom we owe our best heritage — the mechanical instinct, the keen sensibility to harmony, the unconscious skill of the modelling hand — galls us, and puts us to shame by his daily errors; the long-lost mother, whose face we begin to see in the glass as our own wrinkles come, once fretted our young souls with her anxious humours and irrational persistence. But when those words were irrevocably spoken, his look assumed sternness, the sense of power, and immitigable resolve; and this with so natural and imperceptible a change, that it seemed as if the iron man had stood there from the first, and the meek man not at all.
Never did a man show stronger proof of the lineage attributed to him than Judge Pyncheon at this crisis, by this unmistakable resemblance to the picture in the inner room. Phoebe merely glanced at it, and gave it back. Pearce, Dent, London , p. It is my Puritan ancestor, who hangs yonder in the parlour. To be sure, you have found some way of copying the portrait without its black velvet cap and gray beard, and have given him a modern coat and satin cravat, instead of his cloak and band. The sun, as you see, tells quite another story, and will not be coaxed out of it, after half-a-dozen patient attempts on my part.
Here we have the man, sly, subtle, hard, imperious, and, withal, cold as ice. Look at that eye! Would you like to be at its mercy? At that mouth! Could it ever smile? And yet, if you could only see the benign smile of the original! It is so much the more unfortunate, as he is a public character of some eminence, and the likeness was intended to be engraved. Was it, therefore, no momentary mood, but, however skilfully concealed, the settled temper of his life?
And not merely so, but was it hereditary in him, and transmitted down as a precious heirloom, from that bearded ancestor, in whose picture both the expression, and, to a singular degree, the features, of the modern judge were shown as by a kind of prophecy? The air, carriage, and very look and expression of the brother were all reflected in the sister, but softened and refined to the nicest limit of feminine delicacy and attraction. More striking still, was some indefinable resemblance in the face of 91 Ivi, p.
Kolodny, Penguin Books, Harmondsworth , pp. While they had never looked more handsome, nor he more ugly; while they had never held themselves more proudly, nor he shrunk half so low; there never had been a time when the resemblance was so perceptible, or when all the worst characteristics of a face rendered coarse and harsh by evil thoughts were half so manifest as now.
Anything that I had seen in Miss Havisham? In some of her looks and gestures there was that tinge of resemblance to Miss Havisham which may often be noticed to have been acquired by children, from grown persons with whom they have been much associated and secluded, and which, when childhood is passed, will produce a remarkable occasional likeness of expression between faces that are otherwise quite different. And yet I could not trace this to Miss Havisham. I looked again, and though she was still looking at me, the suggestion was gone.
As my eyes followed her white hand, again the same dim suggestion that I could non possibly grasp, crossed me. My involuntary start occasioned her to lay her hand upon my arm. Instantly the ghost passed once more and was gone. What was it? LIV e cfr. She stood looking at her master, not understanding she was free to go, or whether he had more to say to her and would call her back if she did go.
Her look was very intent. Surely, I had seen exactly such eyes and such hands, on a memorable occasion very lately! He dismissed her, and she glided out of the room. But she remained before me, as plainly as if she were still there. I looked at those hands, I looked at those eyes, I looked at that flowing hair; and I compared them with other hands, other eyes, other hair, that I knew of, and with what those might be after twenty years of a brutal husband and a stormy life.
I looked again at those hands and eyes of the housekeeper, and thought of the inexplicable feeling that had come over me when I last walked — not alone — in the ruined garden, and through the deserted brewery. I thought how the same feeling had come back when I saw a face looking at me, and a hand waving to me, from a stage-coach window; and how it had come back again and had flashed about me like lightning, when I had passed in a carriage — not alone — through a sudden glare of light in a dark street.
Qui il protagonista fa conoscenza di colei cui deve indirettamente la pro- 97 Ivi, p. Que vois-je? Somiglia99 Ivi, p. Se negli esempi sopra citati era la memoria a sovrapporre in absentia il profilo dei genitori a quello dei figli, in altre pagine della Recherche la memoria viene stimolata o sostituita da una fotografia.
Note sur la photographie, cit. Su questa pagina cfr. Capitalismo e schizofrenia, tr. Fontana, Einaudi, Torino , p. Vigliani Bragaglia, saggi di M. Calvesi, M. Fagiolo, F. Argan, Einaudi, Torino , passim. Ah finalmente! Chi era? Niente era. Un povero corpo mortificato, in attesa che qualcuno se lo prendesse. Non si mosse; rimase a guardarmi attonito. Poteva anche chiamarsi altrimenti. Esso accenna, semmai, alle infinite altre immagini che possono sovrapporsi o sostituirsi alla sua, rendendola priva di senso cfr. Ero io? Ma poteva anche essere un altro!
Poteva avere quei capelli rossigni, quelle sopracciglia ad accento circonflesso e quel naso che pendeva verso destra, non soltanto per me, ma anche per un altro che non fossi io. Se non mi fossi mai veduto in uno specchio, per esempio? Lo conoscevo io forse? Che potevo conoscere di lui? Il momento in cui lo fissavo, e basta. Per il nesso Pirandello-Proust sono ovviamente fondamentali gli scritti di Giovanni Macchia: Cap. X, , pp. Lorant, Robert Laffont, Paris , vol.
Monnoyer, Gallimard, Paris , p. V, Gallimard, Paris , pp. Crouzet, Flammarion, Paris , p. Del Litto, Gallimard, Paris , p. Basta pensare a Louis Lambert, che chiude gli occhi per trovare dentro se stesso un potere visionario analogo a quello dello scrittore: Quand je le veux [ XI, , p. Sui legami fra queste pagine e il magnetismo si veda A. XI, pp. Si veda S. Nous sommes quittes, je te devais la vie Je me dirige rapidement vers cette maison, [ Sul magnetismo e le conoscenze fisiologiche di Balzac si veda S.
Su queste pagine si veda G. Les Romans de jeunesse, cit. I fantasmi interiori lentamente si esteriorizzano, proiettandosi sui personaggi, trasformandoli in veri e propri spettri. Pierrot, Robert Laffont, Paris , t. I , pp. Si veda anche A.