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Their voices roar. They hurl anger towards those watching. It is a sea of masculinity A tsunami wave of testosterone A savage posse Where are the women, I wonder? Home cooking, crying, cradling children, cringing in corners? When the men come home from their rampage, Do they make love to the women? Do they hold children in their muscles-bound arms? Do they lend help to an old mother?

I want to tell them to lay down their cold, steely weapons: Their whips and guns and knives, The instruments of destruction. Cleave instead unto your women and savour the warmth of [human lesh. Dove sono le donne? A guardare il telegiornale di sera Sono assalita da immagini di uomini Che si battono il petto, Flagellano con catene i loro corpi tesi, Percuotono con fruste di metallo i loro torsi. Le loro voci ruggiscono. Scagliano la loro ira contro quelli che stanno ad osservare.

A casa a cucinare, a piangere, a cullare i bambini, acquattate [negli angoli? Tengono i bambini tra le loro braccia gonie di muscoli? Offrono aiuto ad una vecchia madre? State piuttosto vicino alle vostre donne e assaporate il calore [della carne umana. Your uniform launts your already robust frame [and turns you into a Hercules, although you look pretty good in the buff too. What can I say? I am an animal. You turn me on.

Che dire? Sono un animale. Mi ecciti. A supporter of efforts to preserve the history and culture of the South of Italy, he is also cur- rently serving on a task force for the Italian Language Foundation which seeks to promote the study and knowledge of Italian in the United States. He is also an active member of the Italy-America Chamber of Commerce.

He began writing poetry at the age of thirteen. In , he became editor-in-chief of Tribuna Artistica. Since the advent of the internet, Somma has become involved in numerous literary websites, blogs and inde- pendent radio transmissions.

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Several newspapers and periodicals, including Il Giornale of Milan, have spoken of him as perhaps the poet with the greatest online presence. From to he conducted segments on poetry and songs on several private stations. In he served as leisure time coordinator, for the Campania region, organizing visual poetry exhibitions and shows.

Somma has participated and still participates, as a judge, in numerous poetry and iction competitions. As a poet himself, he has won hundreds of prizes, numerous grand prizes, and twice he earned the silver medal of President of the Republic. Included in many anthologies, as well as scholastic texts, he also has written several short stories.

For years he has also been part of the cultural life of Ischia, maintaining a second home in the Mezzocammino di Casamicciola area of the island. I began translating old Neapolitan poetry into English and French by translating the work of Salvatore Di Giacomo and Gabriele Quattromani as a hobby and to share with friends. Somma inspired me because he began writing in Neapolitan at the same young age I did and because he was a living poet using modern technology so effectively to share his work and interact with the public which he encouraged to join him in writing.

More than a decade after I irst read his work, I found myself talking to the poet of the Vomero himself and he warmly encouraged me to bring his Neapolitan universe to the English-speaking world. Somma is an expert well versed in the last ive centuries of Neapolitan poetry and his vocabulary is classical and traditional and avoids many Italianizing contaminations that some contemporary poets have recourse to, yet he is not lost in the past.

He bridges the past and present of the Neapolitan people. His writing can be deceptively straightforward and when I began to translate it I found myself wanting to include many footnotes to explain his complex word play and cultural allusions. His poetry shows us the hearts and minds of real people, with the ironic and melancholy notes of Neapolitan humor, bringing the real living Naples to the reader through the brooding relections of the truly eternal city.

I had perhaps a double advantage as both a member of the same culture and dealing with an accessible living poet, but also a double challenge in that I felt an urgency to do his verse justice in another language while keeping the tone of his narrative voice and making his local urban references clear.

Somma gives a voice to the many men and women who struggle in their daily lives in a great urban space to earn a living and make sense of their world and its joys and sorrows. Somma makes me proud to be a Neapolitan. I think his universal themes will make his work appeal to anyone, whether they be from great cities like Naples, New York or Mumbai, or the many small towns inland from them.

He encourages us all to share our stories, perhaps even in verse. This is still Naples today, the sea, the sun, life so far away and the cross that is heavy for the Neapolitan Christ without God. It has been a powerful emotional experience, as a non-Nea- politan albeit as a connoisseur and one who loves the South , to let myself slide over the crests of the notes drawn by Luciano.

Because in my opinion, it is rightfully of notes that one must speak, even before poems. So very many, almost ininite notes that weave a body of melodious poetry, recited by the feeling voice of a dialect - Neapolitan, precisely - that, above all when expressed with so much mastery as this and even formal sensitivity, already in and of itself possesses the precious gift of knowing how to and to be able to enter between the most secret and unknown bends of the heart.

In fact so much has been written about him and even more, I am con- vinced, shall be written in the future. Of people, above all people And I watch the sea but this evening the waves are the portrait of these thoughts of mine they come and go like memories that lose themselves there where the water kisses the sky. Better to act as though nothing happened. And I watch the sea Before my eyes the sadness of an autumn rain. How many things have changed how changed too is this people it looks ahead, distant is the past, it is no longer abandoned and beggarly.

Yes, an artist, since I used to go about the alleys amid the stench of sweat and with hunger when God seemed an enemy to me and the Madonna a stepmother and never a mother. When anger clouded these eyes destiny seemed rotten I felt myself trembling in the knees and I used to sing Perhaps he expected this moment, In his pocket he had a revolver, who can know if it was due to a hunch of a dark sky with a bad star.

Another photograph in the newspaper Tomorrow it shall be a news item, nothing more, a sick wave of a criminal sea, a frosty wind that extinguishes your breath. E Dio che fa? Nun vede e nun ce sente? Only then will there be a hand that above divides the good from the bad in heaven or in hell, so slowly, to really do justice, inally. Deep is the pain, and how bitter it tastes, in the calvary of the agitated soul, where this life is ever more cruel and now without the light of God it is damned.

And what does God do? But what does it cost Him to do extend a hand to this mass of humanity that is the most beggarly that is tired of waiting for tomorrow In their dreams they squeeze their little hands seeking to distance all their fears they would like to ly with tiny wings but they bang their heads against the walls.

City that is not just a corner of thieves and prostitutes that lives a beggarly life hard-pressed for a bite of bread. It is a world full of hope now it is building tomorrow because the universe all together helps it with the strength of its hands that dry the weeping of the children raised in the mouth of an alley waking up without fears with the sun, a friendly sun. A brilliant and sparkling friend That lights up these alleyways, dazzles, will this be the winning card or will it be a lash in the pan?

It wanted sweetness but it inds bitterness and it would have given everything for love this life so cruel an enemy far from the harbour with serenity. Atop these waves the boat is hard-pressed on the prow and evening slowly approaches poor and disconsolate it hopes yet that the echo of mermaids will make it arrive. Suddenly the sky becomes dark a lightning lash, then thunder, a storm!

Without a soul how naked is this heart but it beats strongly, it does not want to stop. Her research draws on translation theories concerning the visibility of the translator, the links between translating and travel writing, and the view of translation as a subjective, creative process. During her doctoral studies, Ellen worked on a contract basis as an editor and translator of academic and literary texts. She is currently expanding her work in this area while continuing her research and preparing her indings for publication. Luigi Pirandello is a major literary igure, not only in Italy, but, on a smaller scale, throughout the world.

Although his works were written in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, they contain certain basic themes that will always remain relevant, in any part of the world: the search for identity, the dificulties of human relationships, our quest to make sense of life when it is impossible to do so, isolation and alienation. In , when he was at the height of his fame as a dramatist, he conceived of a project to unite all his short stories under one title, Novelle per un anno, subdivided into 24 vol- umes—according to seemingly arbitrary criteria—each of which was to contain 15 stories.

Presumably ive more would have been included to reach a total of stories, one for each day of the year. By the time of his death, 14 volumes had been published and a if- teenth was published posthumously. The latest Mondadori edition contains a total of stories. Yet this story is known to many English-language speakers through its adaptation, along with three other Pirandello stories set in Sicily, in the ilm Kaos by Paolo and Vittorio Taviani. Note on the Translation Translation necessarily involves sacriice and loss.

Lost are the additional meanings of male: evil, wrong, bad, sin, misfortune, ill-luck, harm, hurt, woe, trouble. Lost are the special connotations in Sicily surrounding la roba and the concept of property, which, according to Leonardo Sciascia, is the projection and integration of the Sicilian personality, of the Sicilian individual. Sidora, sua moglie, di tratto in tratto si voltava a guardarlo, in pensiero, dalla soglia su cui stava a sedere, col capo appoggiato allo stipite della porta, e gli occhi socchiusi.

Il gesto era vano. Il ilo di paglia, appena mosso, si piegava. Oh Dio, io per me non lo darei a una mia igliuola. Sidora, his wife, turned to look at him with concern every so often from where she was sitting on the threshold, her head leaning against the doorpost and her eyes half-closed. Then, overwhelmed by the oppressive heat, she went back to stretching her gaze to- wards the blue strip of the far-off sea, as if she were waiting for a breath of air to rise from there, now that it was near sunset, and softly make its way over to her, across the naked earth bristling with burnt stubble.

So great was the heat, the air was visible above the straw left in the yard after the threshing, trembling like the breath of burn- ing embers. The gesture was futile. Freshly mown, the stalk of straw kept bending. Married to him just twenty days, Sidora already felt worn- out, exhausted. She felt a strange emptiness, inside and around her, heavy and terrible. And it seemed almost unreal, that such a short time ago she had been brought there, to that old, isolated property, with its stable and house in one, in the middle of that stubble wasteland, without a tree about, without a strip of shade.

There, for twenty days, barely stiling her tears and revulsion, she had only just managed to surrender her body to that taciturn man, who was about twenty years older than she and who seemed to be weighed down now by a sorrow more desperate than her own. She remembered what the neighbor women had said to her mother, when she had announced the marriage proposal to them. Vedeva due fresche labbra argute e vermiglie come due foglie di garofano aprirsi a un sorriso che le faceva fremere e frizzare tutto il sangue nelle vene.

Ah, certo, Saro sarebbe stato un pessimo marito; ma che marito era questo, adesso? Arrangolando, se lo ricacciava dentro; lottava contro i singulti, con un gorgoglio orribile nella strozza. E aveva la faccia sbiancata, torbida, terrea; gli occhi foschi e velati, in cui dietro la follia si scorgeva una paura quasi infantile, ancora cosciente, ininita. Con le mani seguitava a farle cenno di attendere e di non spaventarsi e di tenersi discosta. Non ti spaventare Se batto, se scuoto la porta e la grafio e grido And the more determined she was that she marry him, the more they, dejectedly, showed reluctance to join in her satisfaction at the good fortune that had befallen her daughter.

Cast out there all the time, on that far-off piece of land of his, no one knew how he lived; he was always alone, like an animal in the company of his animals, two she-mules, a she-ass and the guard dog; and he certainly had a strange demeanour, menacing and sometimes like that of a fool. There had actually been another reason, and perhaps a stron- ger one, why her mother was determined that she marry that man. Sidora remembered this other reason too, which at that moment seemed far, far away, as if in another life, but still distinct, detailed.

She could see two fresh witty, vermilion lips, like two carnation pet- als, opening into a smile that made all the blood in her veins throb and tingle. Oh, certainly, Saro would have made an awful husband; but what kind of husband was this one, now? The troubles the other one would undoubtedly have given her, were they perhaps not preferable to the anguish, the revulsion, the fear, that this one aroused in her? A moaning, almost of rage, sprang from his throat. Sidora, terriied, rushed towards him, but he stopped her with a wave of his arms.

A gush of saliva, inexhaustible, prevented him from speaking. Struggling, he swallowed it back down; he fought against the convulsions, with a horrible gurgling in his throat. And his face was pale, turbid, ashen; his eyes dark and veiled; behind their madness an almost childlike fear could be made out, still conscious, never ending.

He continued to signal to her with his hands to wait and not to be frightened and to keep her distance. Sidora, nel voltarsi per correre alla roba, difatti intravide nello spavento la luna in quintadecima, affocata, violacea, enorme, ap- pena sorta dalle livide alture della Crocca. Ah, se avesse potuto ucciderlo! Barricaded inside, holding herself tight as if to prevent her limbs from breaking off from their incessant, mounting, uncontrol- lable shaking, she too moaning, out of her mind with terror, soon after heard the drawn-out, feral howls of her husband writhing outside, there in front of the door, a victim of the horrendous sick- ness coming at him from the moon, and he was beating his head, his feet, his knees, his hands, against the door, and he was scratching it, as if his ingernails had become claws, and he was panting, as if in the fever pitch of a raging bestial toil, as if he wanted to pull that door out, tear it off, and now he was baying, baying, as if he had a dog inside his body, and once again he was scratching, snorting, howling, and beating his head, his knees against it.

Oh, if only she could have killed him! Feeling helpless, she turned around, as if to search for a weapon in the room. But through a window grating, high up, on the opposite wall, she again caught sight of the moon, now translucent, as it rose in the sky, suffused by a tranquil pallor. At the sight, as if suddenly struck down by contagion from the sickness herself, she let out a great cry and fell on her back, unconscious.

The door latches brought back her memory and she was immediately terriied by the silence now prevailing out there. She rose to her feet; she ap- proached the door unsteadily, and listened carefully. Giaceva come una bestia morta, bocconi, tra la bava, nero, tumefatto, le braccia aperte.

La catapecchia, buja come un antro, in fondo a un vicolo angusto, era stenebrata appena da una lumierina a olio. Sidora parve la ingombrasse tutta, precipitandosi dentro, scompigliata, affannosa. Il terrore superstizioso di quel male oscuro invase tutte le donne, al racconto di Sidora. Ah, povera igliuola! Latrava eh? E come non era morta, povera igliuola? Nothing more.

She remained listening for a long time, now oppressed by fear of that enormous, mysterious silence, of the entire world. And inally she thought she heard a sigh from nearby, a mighty sigh, as if it emanated from a mortal agony. Straightaway she ran to the chest under the bed; she drew it forward; she opened it; she pulled out her woolen cape; she returned to the door; she listened carefully again for a long time, then, one by one, hurriedly, silently, lifted up the latches, silently lifted the bolt, the crossbar; she opened one door wing just slightly, fearfully eyed the ground through the narrow opening.

He was lying like a dead animal, lat on his face, in his drool, black, swollen, his arms outspread. His dog, squatting close by, was guarding him, under the moon. Sidora came outside holding her breath; very slowly, she half-closed the door, made an angry sign to the dog to not move from there, and, warily, with the tread of a wolf, her cape under her arm, led across the countryside towards the village, in the still deep night, fully imbued with the radiance of the moon.

Her mother had just gotten up. Dark as a cave, the hovel at the end of a narrow alley was barely illuminated by an oil lamp. As she rushed inside, disheveled, breathless, Sidora seemed to ill the whole space. Upon seeing her daughter at that hour, in that state, the mother raised a cry and caused all the neighbor women to come running with their oil lamps in hand. Sidora began to weep loudly and, while weeping, she tore her hair, pretended to be unable to speak, so that her mother, and the neighbors, would better understand and take in the enormity of the event that had befallen her, of the fear that had taken hold of her.

The moonsickness! Oh, poor girl! They had told her mother so, that the man was not natural, that the man must be hiding some great defect, that not one of them would have had their own daughter marry him. He was baying, was he? Howling like a wolf? Scratching at the door? Good heavens, how frightening! Avete il coraggio di ricomparirmi davanti? Via di qua! Assassino traditore, via di qua! Mi avete rovinato una iglia! Gli toccavano: era in colpa; aveva nascosto il suo male. Era giusto che ora della sua colpa pagasse la pena.

Oh, my daughter! Oh, my poor ruined child! Have you really got the nerve to show yourself again? Away from here! Treacher- ous murderer, away from here! They affected him: he felt guilty; he had hidden his sick- ness. He had hidden it, because no woman would have taken him, if he had revealed it beforehand. It was right that he now pay the penalty for his wrongdoing. He kept his eyes closed and bitterly shook his head, without moving a step. Then his mother-in-law slammed the door in his face and bolted it. A irst more courageous neighbor woman offered him a chair; the others, in twos and threes, came outside and gathered around him.

Ogni volta che la luna era in quintadecima, il male lo riprendeva. Volete far morire di paura anche mia madre? Questa allora venne fuori anche lei, scostando con un gomito la iglia e imponendole di star zitta e quieta in casa. State ad accordarvi tra voi? Debbo dirlo io! Con Saro. The enchantment, however, had slumbered inside him for years and years, and only a short time ago had reawakened in him.

Every time the moon was full, the sickness took hold of him again. But it was a sickness for him alone; the others need only keep away from him: and they could easily keep away from him, because it was at a set time and he felt it coming and gave advance warning of it; it lasted only one night, and then it was over. My mother? Do you want to make my mother die from fright too? Forget it! Have you come to an agreement with each other? I must say it! Did he say that? I said it. With Saro. Sidora, a quelle parole accompagnate da un ambiguo sorriso, si sentiva gelare e lo guardava sbigottita. Giunse alla ine la sera tanto sospirata e insieme tanto temuta.

Sidora, che fremeva tutta, fece segno al cugino e alla madre di non dirgli nulla e li condusse dentro la roba. Mi chiudo bene, e lui faccia pure il lupo fuori. Come se sul murello, su cui stava seduto, ci fossero spine, si dimenava di continuo e inghiottiva con stento. Be quiet! She thought of nothing else, for the entire twenty-nine days that went by until the new full moon.

At last the evening arrived, so long-awaited and at the same time so dreaded.

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The mother arrived by horse with her nephew Saro two hours before the moon would rise. Sidora, who was trembling all over, gestured to her cousin and her mother not to say anything to him and led them inside the house. Her mother immediately went to poke her nose into a dark little room, where old tools were piled up, hoes, sickles, saddles, baskets, saddlebags, next to the big room that also sheltered the animals. As darkness descended, bit by bit, on the countryside, Sidora cast out ever more ardent and provocative glances.

Sidora gli rispondeva con un gesto vivace di noncuranza e seguitava, ridendo, ad aizzarlo con gli occhi. Ah con qual furia si diede a metter puntelli e puntelli e puntelli, mentre la vecchia si rintanava mogia mogia nello sgabuzzino, e Sidora, irritata, delusa, gli ripeteva, con tono ironico: - Ma piano, piano Non era niente? Ah, non era niente?

Coi capelli drizzati su la fronte, ai primi ululi del marito, alle prime testate, alle prime pedate alla porta, ai primi sbrufi e grafii, Saro, tutto bagnato di sudor freddo, con la schiena aperta dai brividi, gli occhi sbarrati, tremava a verga a verga. Signore Iddio! Ma come? Mentre il marito, fuori, faceva alla porta quella tempesta, eccola qua, rideva, seduta sul letto, dimenava le gambe, gli tendeva le braccia, lo chiamava: - Saro!

Ah si? And from time to time he extended a sidelong look at the man there awaiting the attack of his sickness; he also stretched out his neck to see if behind the hills of Crocca the frightful face of the moon had emerged. Sidora answered him with a lively gesture of indifference and, laughing, carried on provoking him with her eyes. At those eyes, almost brazen by now, Saro began to feel hor- ror and terror, more than at the man crouching over there, in wait. Oh, it was nothing? It was noth- ing? Good lord! Was that woman over there crazy? A former editor of the monthly magazine Poesia, he has edited Dizionario della poesia italiana ; and co-edited the anthology Poeti italiani del secondo Novecento ; Michael Palma was born on September 21, , in the Bronx.

This is the greeting and the sacriice of the soul will be lighter. On the happy silence of a meadow the shadow of the last word settles. Be at peace nonetheless and peace be to him who was silent. It is we who are the body of economy. What I knew of him I have poured into myself. Il piccolo albergo rosso, feriale, per una birra. La sabbia quieta, come nella cartolina, e i ragazzi sdraiati al sole di dicembre. From the longboat he thought about the glass case in the institute, he watched the backs and eyes, such stately bodies.

The House of Slaves open to the ocean through a hole, the greenery low and dusty as at Mozia and the cannon at the summit. The ordinary little red hotel for a beer. The placid sand, just as on the postcard, and the boys lying stretched out in the December sun. So unexpected and mild and delicate, Africa. E tu, mamma, non puoi non essere contenta: sono con tutti allegro, sempre, sono stato sincero con voi, sono sempre lo stesso Ma le strade hanno in fondo come una nebbia dorata e gli occhi non vedevano che buio da ogni parte Vi bacio, miei stronzetti adorati.

But the far ends of the avenues seem to be like a gilded mist and my eyes saw nothing but the dark on every side The port is the fury of the sea. I kiss you, my beloved little shits. The Atlas of the Soul It pullulates and regerminates without ceasing, gushes and surfaces from the ininitesimal porosities, from the guts and from the bits, from the ground meal to the corpuscles to the villi and microvilli and most of all it runs wild there, it intersects it saturates and disseminates, indecipherable substance, from cavities and juices and generates sentiments and visions, inklings, panic, euphoria, overlows and igures of the mind, the prismatic protocol of the soul.

Fosse in tuta o in pigiama da ospedale mi ha indicato, al muro, un atlante colorato. Ogni soggetto, unico e irripetibile, si ottiene solo in aree geograiche ben deinite. Whether in a sweatsuit or a pair of hospital pajamas, he pointed out to me a colored atlas on the wall. I thought the cavities were immense viscous vacuities but what they really are is a sponge or a pulpy mass. And yet all so marvelous and perfect, on a structure strongly vertebrate but bloody nonetheless, compressed in its economy in a vertiginous exponential growth. Every specimen, unique and unrepeatable, is obtained only in well-deined geographical areas.

In warmer regions we turn out more savory. In cooler regions we tend as a rule to be sweet. Between astonishment and disgust I considered the secretions and synthesis, the juices and the paste that they produced, the wavelike contractions, the briskness of piling up toward ever more degenerated forms… and the plexuses, regulators of inhibitions and stimuli.

One after another the red-brown iltering lobes, the ducts, the canaliculi, the laminae, the isthmus and islands of Langerhans, the micelles of the fatty-aqueous interface, going way down to the processes of putrefaction and of fermentation. Grazia Deledda was born in Nuoro, on the island of Sar- dinia, in She began writing poetry and short stories while still a child, and published her irst work at age nineteen.

Her apprenticeship continued until her early thirties, when she wrote Elias Portolu, the irst of the series of novels that brought her fame. With this apparently innocu- ous incident, Deledda draws an indelible portrait of our tendency to deform what we experience and to believe our own inventions. I suoi occhi erano felici, come credo fossero i miei; avevamo entrambi dimenticato molte cose. E le onde giocavano coi nostri piedi.

Three peasants sat on the sand; beside them lay the closed umbrella, baskets, and shoes that weigh the journey down. The dog was in front of them, motionless with his paws in the water, and through the bars of his muzzle he gazed out to sea like a prisoner. I was also walking barefoot in the water, and looked at him; for I would rather look into the eyes of animals than those of people, who lie. The big dog looked at me: he had sweet green eyes and a young, loyal face: and his high gray back was splashed with brown continents, like a map.

He immediately understood my state of mind — good, since the weather was ine and the sea calm — and followed me. I heard his steps in the water behind me, like those of a child; he caught up to me and touched me lightly with his snout to let me know he was there, and as if to ask permission to accompany me. I turned and caressed his velvety head; and I felt right away that inally I too had a friend in the world. He seemed gladdened by something new as well: from heavy, he became light, running ahead of me, almost dancing in the water, his clean paws emerging in a cloud of sparks: and every so often he stood still and waited for me, turning to see if I was pleased with him.

His eyes were happy, as I believe mine were; we had both forgotten many things. And the sea accompanied us as a third on this beautiful stroll, likewise forgetful of its anger that too often rises up - though no more often than our own. And the waves played with our feet. Two tall youths passed by, carrying a small blonde girl by her arms like an amphora: then, no one.

I went on that way until I reached a distant place, a cemetery of dead seashells, scattered like bones across a battleield. Ma il cane va ancora avanti per conto suo, anzi balza in terra e si avvoltola nella rena, gioca con un fuscello, si stende in su, col ventre nudo fremente, le zampe che pare vogliano abbrancare il cielo. Pareva un prigioniero tornato nel carcere dopo una breve fuga. Si vede che ha perduto il padrone. Man does not set foot here; yet there is the fear of encountering one; better to turn back, where there are many, and the one keeps us from the evil of the other.

But the dog again goes onwards by himself, or rather he jumps about and rolls in the sand, plays with a twig, stretches upwards, with his naked belly shivering, his paws seeming to want to em- brace the sky. And I will also have him guard the house. Those are my thoughts; from small calculations, our acts of generosity, like lovely lowers from their seeds, are born. The dog now came close to me, measuring his step with mine: at times he paused and sniffed the seaweed, then stared at the sea, shaking his ears: doubtless he was looking for something as we went back down.

But if I caressed his head, he nevertheless raised his eyes and promised me his loyalty. Having returned to where the peasants were, he stopped, his paws in the water, his eyes, through the bars of his muzzle, gaz- ing far out to sea. He seemed like an inmate returned to jail after a brief escape. Quante cose tu mi hai insegnato oggi, o grande cane dai verdi occhi che dunque sanno mentire come quelli degli uomini! There he had lost his master, and there he would remain to wait for him. In , a series of his articles on these issues will appear in a number of journals and anthologies.

Francesca Bellino , giornalista, scrittrice, reporter di viaggio, autrice e conduttrice televisiva e radiofonica. Lucio Battisti e il jazz italiano Elleu, Suoi testi sono tradotti in spagnolo dal Clarin di Bue- nos Aires. I also wish to acknowledge Don Bras- well, whose advice on the English language has motivated me to strive for clarity and precision in my translation. The Chinese immigration to Italy illustrates this point perfectly.

Therefore, by providing this translation, I hope to contribute to the literature on this history-making movement. Sono gli ultimi della famiglia a chiudere il bar per mettersi al volante della loro Bmw grigia e lasciare la capitale. Da quando Lucia e Renzo sono arrivati a Roma vivono nel benessere. Non gli manca niente. In soli tre anni di gestione del bar sono riusciti a pagarsi la macchina e parte della casa. Non hanno mai lasciato il bancone. When they close the bar and get behind the wheel of their grey-color BMW, they are the last members of the family to leave the capital.

Today, however, in prepara- tion for their departure, they opted to park close to their place in order to load boxes and luggage more easily. They both wish to carry their most precious possessions with them. Since their arrival in Rome, Lucia and Renzo have lived in comfort. They have everything. In only three years after opening the bar, they have managed to buy a car and pay part of the mort- gage on their home.

Naturally, at irst it was dificult to start up a business in a country so different from their own; but they enjoyed doing it. They have been all-out workers who never felt working was burdensome. Changing their names proved more annoying for them. After their relocation to Rome, they cast aside their real names and then chose two new ones so that they could run their business better.

Their real names are dificult for most customers to pronounce and memorize. As a result, like the rest of the Chinese commu- nity in Italy, it was far easier for Renzo and Lucia to acquire new names than to teach every Italian entering the bar their Chinese ones. On the night of their departure, just half an hour before they rolled down the shutters, a man came in and asked Pan Na Na what her name was. Reluctantly she gave in to his pressure and told him what it was. Non vi basta rubare il lavoro dei commercianti italiani. Posso chiamarti Panna?

Fatti gli affari tuoi? Yi e Ding, sono nati a Roma e, quando hanno letto il romanzo di Alessandro Manzoni a scuola, sono scoppiati a ridere scoprendo che i protagonisti si chiamano come gli zii. Hanno semplicemente sentito questi nomi alla televisione, gli sono piaciuti e li hanno fatti propri. Lo accendono durante la cena e lo lasciano in funzione ino alla mattina dopo quando, di fretta e furia, vanno insieme ad aprire il bar a piazza Vittorio, nel quartiere Esquilino.

Guar- dano diversi programmi, dai quiz ai reality show, e naturalmente seguono il Tg. Credono a tutto quello che dice la televisione. However, she had also learned that the customer is always right and must be given maximum satisfaction. Scratching his head, the man continued to sneer. All right, can I call you Panna then?

Mind your own business? Yi and Ding were both born in Rome.

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They burst out laughing when they read the novel of Alessandro Manzoni in school, learning that the protagonists had the same names as their uncle and aunt. They heard these names on the TV and liked them, so they took them as their own. They turn it on during dinner and leave it on until the next morning, when they dash off together in a mad rush to the bar in Piazza Vittorio in Esquilino. They watch sev- eral TV programs, including quiz and reality shows, and naturally TV news. They listen to the news in order to improve their Italian but also to keep informed on what is happening around them and to understand the Italian way of life.

They believe everything the TV says. So when they heard that on May 11 there might be a major earthquake that could destroy the eternal city, they started planning their irst vacation away from the bar and their irst trip out of Rome since two months ago. Ma dove andiamo? Dalla famiglia dello zio Gao. Pan Na Na non si era tranquillizzata affatto. Avere un posto dove fuggire non la faceva sentire lontana dal pericolo. Ha cambiato ben sette numeri di cellulare prima di essere soddisfatta della numerazione giusta per lei.

Ha letto molti libri quando ancora viveva in Cina e a terrorizzarla maggiormente nella storia del terremoto era stata proprio la data: 11 maggio But where can we go? Her head quivered and she looked pale after listening to the news on Sky. Concealing his own panic, Wen Sen Zuo took her by hand and calmed her down immediately as if he were an angel.

He lives near the city, in the countryside. The prophecy made by Raffaele Bendandi seemed so real to her. Pan Na Na believes in all kinds of superstition, premonitions, and magical revelations she is told because she is afraid of dying and hopes to shield herself by interpreting signs in nature and studying numerology. She changed her cell phone number seven times before inally being satisied that she had with the right nu- merals.

She was looking for a sequence with a marked presence of eight, which is the number of wealth and immortality. She even objected to the numbers on the car plate and on the landing of their apartment, although in those cases there was no choice. She had to resign herself and get used to the absence of eight from the car plate and the impracticality of inding an eight-story building in Esquilino. Pan Na Na is passionate about numerology. She read many books back in China, and what terrorized her most in the history of earthquakes was the exact date of May 11, In her youth, when she had time to read, she used to apply herself to the study of the number 11, which is a master number full of meanings in numerology.

When she heard that Rome could be razed to the ground on May 11, she almost fainted. Molti suoi connazionali la pensano come lei e si soffermano a leggere il signiicato dei numeri. Ha inilato tutti i soldi risparmiati mese dopo mese in cartoni di cornetti e brioche surgelate e cestini di pane per tramezzini destinati al bar e li ha fatti posizionare nel portabagagli da Wen Sen Zuo.

Ognuno ha lasciato un diverso cartello: chiuso per ferie, chiuso per inventario, chiuso per lavori. Noi siamo proprio gli ultimi. E se il terremoto anticipa di qualche ora e arriva mentre siamo in viaggio? Perderemo tutto e moriremo… La natura comanda, guida e regola le nostre esistenze, ma io voglio vivere ancora!!! Many of her coun- trymen thought as she did and started to interpret the meaning of the numbers. Although Pan Na Na is proud of herself for being an active, independent, and competitive career woman, she is plagued by many anxieties that have been ampliied in Rome in spite of her better living conditions.

She never uses the subway for fear of terrorist attacks, never goes out without her husband for fear of being raped, and never leaves the daily proits in the bar for fear of thieves. She put all the money that had been saved for months into boxes of frozen croissants and small baskets of sandwich bread for the bar, and then had Wen Sen Zuo place them in the trunk of their car. A few days earlier, she consulted relatives and neighbors of their bar in Esquilino, where her brother and cousin had a store as well.

All agreeing that none of them would leave any of their belongings behind, she even decided to take light with the TV set. When the car was ready for their departure, Pan Na Na burst into tears. Everyone left a different notice: closed for vacation, closed for inventory, closed for renovation. We really are the last. Old Dong was right. But I still want to live!!! Do you know how it is in Italy?

Xia Yang, the restaurant lady, told me about it. Wen Sen Zuo si lascia contagiare dalla paura e non riesce a tranquillizzarla, ma la invita a salire in macchina con un gesto del capo. I due inalmente si mettono in viaggio, tesi e preoccupati, con il portabagagli pieno zeppo di brioche e tramezzini e il televisore che dondola sul sedile posteriore. Grazie al navigator arrivano presto e non sbagliano strada, ma sono gli ultimi a giungere dallo zio Gao. La psicosi ha allarmato tutti e zio Gao non ha saputo dire di no a nessuno, anche agli amici degli amici degli amici.

Dove dormiremo? Rimane immobile al centro del salone con le parole di terrore della moglie che gli rimbombano nelle orecchie e il viavai di gente che intorno a lui va e viene dal giardino alla cucina e dal salotto al giardino. Her fear infects Wen Sen Zuo. Unable to calm her down, he gestures with his head for her to get into the car.

Wasting no time, he decides to hit the road. No more sticking around. Finally, the husband and wife are on their way, tense and anxious. The trunk is illed with croissants and sandwiches, and the TV set rocks to and fro in the backseat. Thanks to the GPS navigator, they arrive soon without losing their way. They are all Chinese, relatives and friends who work in Rome and in the surrounding areas. Some immigrated in the s, and others more recently. The psychosis alarmed everyone. Wen Sen Zuo no longer replies. He looks as if he is in a daze. Unable to bear too much chatter, she decides to go and rest in the car, leaving her husband behind in the hall, immobile like a mummy.

Ora desidera soltanto stare sola almeno per una mezzoretta. Desidera arricchirsi e godere delle ricchezze in Italia e in Cina. Si immagina eterna, sempre giovane, distesa in un campo di iori con un ruscello limpido di ianco che scorre costante e luccicante e le accarezza i piedi, guarda in su e sorride al sole e alla luna insieme. Il sogno si trasforma in incubo. Il quattro per il suo popolo simboleggia la morte. Viene raggiunta da questa pioggia anomala e rimane sommersa sotto un ininito numero di quattro che la immobilizza e la lascia senza respiro.

Ha sentito e riconosciuto la voce della moglie nonostante il vociare del salone e il volume altissimo della televisione. Invece di tirare fuori la moglie dal suo incubo rimane pietriicato dalla scena che prende forma davanti ai suoi occhi increduli. Placed at the center of the big hall, the TV set is beautiied with a big vase of colorful artiicial lowers.

Pan Na Na takes a quick glance at the screen and then looks the other way immedi- ately, not paying a bit of attention to the lowers. Now her only desire is to be alone for at least half an hour. She walks swiftly toward the parking lot, opens the trunk of her BMW to let in air for the boxes of food, takes her seat in the front, and reclines it.

Hugging her bulging purse on her lap, she closes her eyes. She tries to relax and dream about having no fears. She wishes to become rich and enjoy her wealth in Italy and in China. She imagines herself being eternal, ageless, and stretched out in a ield of lowers beside a limpid creek that gushes faithfully and glitteringly as it caresses her feet. She looks upward and smiles at the sun and moon together. The bleating of baby goats reaches her from afar. An unknown feeling of peacefulness envelops her whole body.

All of a sudden, she sees a rain composed of colossal numerals of four falling down from the sky. The dream becomes nightmarish. To her people, the number four signiies death. Hit by this peculiar rain, she is submerged by an ininite quantity of fours that immo- bilizes her and leaves her gasping for air.

With nowhere to escape, death comes looking for her, and she is incapable of resisting it. She lets out a long and liberating shriek, something that she must have meant to do for days. This sound alarms Wen Sen Zuo who comes running immediately, red in the face and out of breath.

He has heard and recognized the voice of his wife in spite of the clamor in the hall and the extremely high volume of the TV. When he reaches the car, he is unsure how to react to the situation. Le caprette si allontanano sazie pian piano, appesantite dal ghiotto pasto, e nel silenzio del parcheggio, proprio in quel momento, squilla il telefono di Wen Sen Zuo ancora sotto shock di fronte alla sua Bmw rapinata.

Voi siete aperti domani 11 maggio? They left neither a crumb of bread nor any money in the trunk. The woman appears to have lost consciousness, but must have just collapsed into her delirious sleep once more. The goats walk away slowly, sated and weighed down by their tasty meal. Standing in front of the plundered BMW, he is still in shock. The friendly voice of a customer is heard in the incoming call. Will yours be open tomor- row, on May 11? This bilingual edition of poems won the third place prize for the Premio Civetta di Minerva.

It attempted to blur the differences between the original and transla- tion. III, No. As adolescence fades into adulthood the narrator discovers the value and beauty of each thing, even the smallest a puddle, a wounded pike, a dead bird on the sidewalk. Today those ideals appear to have been overcome by cynical individualism. A consistent alternat- ing pattern is clearly delineated. Thus there are essentially two types of prose, a poetic one of places and a narrative of people, sorts of letters to vanished persons from the past.

Yet each form shapes and affects the other. Toward the end there is a suite of seven epistolary pieces. Memories of adolescence are iltered through topographical perspectives in letter like fragments. Most of these segments recount episodes from adolescence and contrast events and feelings from then with now. The sensation of time is consistently rendered through the contrast between the conditions of youth and the weathered present. The inal piece is a poem, which could refer to the watercolor on the cover or those in the original Italian edition.

Tanto vale parlarne. I stare at the white walls of the room, the humidity stains be- yond the books on the desk and behind the glass cases. They look at me aligned like soldiers of an army adrift in who knows which Russia. No one else has stopped by, not even the custodian with his lashlight for the inal check. I look at the back of my hands, those transparent tiny veins of blue beyond the veil of hair, roads that lose themselves at the limits of my knuckles up to the transparent isthmus of my nails and beyond the grey of my desk which the white paper obfuscates with its lined brilliance.

Now I write on snow, not typical of May, memory deposited a thick blanket between the pen and the wood. Like the lynx starved for days I look for you in the snow following the imprint of your blood, but the trace vanishes after the Holm oaks in the shadow swallowing the light of the iery sunset and the rare birds who cut the horizon in black theory of wings. At this hour who knows where you are if you are alive and who cradles you in which grotto. If I were to cry, it would be a lake, but the lake exists already.

I might as well talk about it. La campana suona mezzogiorno. Tutto ora tace, tutto riposa. La terra poi digrada a terrazze sidando il vuoto cui due larghi tronchi di betulla danno le spalle arcuandosi in vertebre di nodi. If a stone deviates its course, the water lows from canals in sudden whirlpools of foam, and in the moss a white plug thickens into a cluster of blackish branches soaked by sleep.

Then, suddenly, near Calcinate, those trunks piled beyond the grating, temple amidst the debris in the rust of days where a ringworm dog errs wagging his tail in the heat as he hunts butterlies. Meanwhile, beyond the scaly skin of the lake the mud plowed ields that con- ceal string like worms become visible and voices call children lost in dark games behind bushes or on blanched roads of no return.

The bell tolls noon. Three trunks, a dolmen offered to the parched god of wrinkling heat. Everything is silent. Everything rests. The vegetables, all within a clearly marked perimeter of earth, tend their leaves to the sun like arms between well cut blades of grass while here and there a dark shadow surfaces. The land then slopes down in terraces defying the void where two wide birch trunks arch their shoulders in knotted vertebrae. There is a sort of vegetal hernia, between the bottom of the trunk and the root where furtive lizards or frogs nestle.

And the water, not pure clear spring water, begins pushing off shore. No, as a prisoner of another barrier of wood that turns it into a lake within the lake whose long tresses of algae sway trans- parently like serpents on the shore awaiting the wind.

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Beside is a sort of open pile dwelling. Yet underneath the shelter reveals its empty stomach invaded by the alternating ebb and low of the tide. The dark walls can do nothing against the wave that breaks on rotten wood corroding its ixtures. No one knows where the boat that once resided on these shores has gone. Crushed by neglect or a storm, perhaps she offers her thighs to the lust of pikes at the bottom off the little island Virginia. Without feet, nor head, who knows, perhaps because of an impact with a car or the fangs of a rabid dog.

Not a pigeon, nor a swallow, perhaps a mallard because of those greenish lines around the neck yellowing with pink ha- loes in the sunlight. There with its tummy in the air, freshly dead, feathers soaked with rain clotted in tufts above the grey pallor of shining lesh which the cyclists avoid at the last moment with a sudden shift of handlebars. Certainly he had rested several times to catch his breath there on the high branches of ir trees scented with dew, or below toward the lake in the shade of the coppiced forest, mocking rats or squirrels, both agile but heavy without wings, as they stared at him squeaking annoyed each time he took light for the lake on ashen slabs of water, with slow but steadily lapping wings until he crossed the road of the wind sail- ing among the clouds like a prince without a domain.

La pietra rossastra, tagliata da linee curve, forma volte sormontate da fregi color mattone. Che resta su una coscia siorata? Forse un segno come quello di un grafio di spine, o uno strato sottile di polline, invisibile, se non alle antenne delle api che vagano basse tra i rovi. The stone, cut from curved lines, is reddish forming arches crowned by brick colored friezes. Still damp with night rain, the surrounding woods are overgrown surpassing the gate. Rows of green mingle with poppies that raise their heads beyond the trellis tending toward the bodies of cyclists who dart past swiftly in the descent with sudden screeches of breaks.

What remains on a thigh that has been grazed? Perhaps a sign like thorn scratches, or a thin layer of pollen, invisible, except to the antennas of bees who err low among the blackberry bushes. The inside is a pile of tools, lime, sacs of cement and bags gutted with illegible writings, where, in lashes lizards wander curious about the crevices of bricks from which they emerge all of a sudden scouting as they agitate their tiny heads, before retreating toward a mass of barbed wire rendered similar to a rosary by rust.

Down there behind the cellophane that covers the loor, a relection of lights on the walls draws a versatile shadow like the batting of eyelashes. My pen had stopped in trips where writing was talking about it with others who do—which is some- thing quite different. I turn off the television. Sono usciti a buio in barca, avvolti nelle cerate, lasciandosi alle spalle un greto sassoso di sterpi.

Sanno che ha lasciato anche ieri una vittima riversa sulla riva, un bimbo di otto anni annegato in un metro. They went out on the boat in the dark, wrapped in oilcloths leaving behind a pebbly shore full of undergrowth. The motor coughs at the stern with him seated between the extinguished lashlights, the other already loaded with a rocket gun and ishing spears stumbling in the nets with his muddy boots.

The other shore, every other shore is hidden by a wall of mist that night dusts with disturbing dreams and monsters. They know that even yesterday he left a victim on the shore, a child of eight years old drowned in three feet of water. They know it but no one saw it, not even them.

This is why they know it. The monster strikes and hides further off shore each time. No one has ever met him, no one knows who he may be. Just a reddish trace behind the last boat, curdled blood from the isthmus algae. At the age of twenty-ive he was offered the Chair of Italian Lit- erature at the University of Bologna, which he held for over forty years. A iery personality, he dominated the Italian literary scene with the classical structure of his poetry and the rebellious liveli- ness of its contents. The historical references in most of his themes saturated and inebriated a nation at the dawn of its glorious unity and independence.

His true poetic vein seems no longer to be sought in the tempestuous rhetoric of his anticleri- cal convictions or in the scintillating explosion of his highly per- sonal concepts of history and society. Paesaggio bianco, Salve, Umbria verde, e tu del puro fonte nume Clitumno!

Darkening clouds are meanwhile smoking over the Apennine: austere, and vast, and verdant, from all the mountains sloping in a circle Umbria watches. Peccato, se mi arrestassero magari mi dedicherebbe una copertina come a Maso o a Corona, alcuni dei suoi eroi da copertina. Vedo una finale a tre: Oney, Stella, Basile.

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Interviste , Selvaggia Lucarelli. Molte considerazioni le condivido totalmente, la valutazione sulla televisione DeFilippiana in primis. Che banderuola da quattro centesimi! Davide buongiorno. Continuo a leggerla se mi capita. Cavolo mi dispiace per te…. Tu la vuoi chiamare ironia? RSS feed per i commenti di questo post. Se sei registrato fai il login oppure Connetti con Facebook. Notifica via mail dei commenti successivi. Segui davidemaggio.

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