A 20 minuti dall aeroporto di alghero e 15 minuti dalle spiagge. Residenza jacaranda. Show all. Popular homes. Connessione Wi-Fi. A 4 km dai centri commerciali di Sassari. Casa Bra. Spazio esterno per auto, camper, barche, gommoni e animali al seguito. Adiacente palazzetto dello sport, incontri basket Dinamo, servito da mezzi pubblici, market, banche, bar. Ben collegato con mezzi pubblici. Ideale per un soggiorno in relax anche per trasferisti. Appartamento a Sassari. E' adatto a coppie, avventurieri solitari, chi viaggia per lavoro, famiglie con bambini e amici pelosi animali domestici.
Alloggio attrezzato, comodo, accogliente, tranquillo, in campagna, ma vicino al mare e a tutte le bellezze della nostra zona e della Sardegna. Vacanza, turismo, riposo, lavoro. Stanza singola. Casa grande, luminosa, tutti confort. Lettino per bimbi. Le bellezze preistoriche dappertutto.
Un modo intelligente e riposante per godersi la Sardegna. Appartamento indipendente, ampio con tutte le attrezzature e dotazioni. All'esterno ampia veranda dove trascorrere le ore di relax e mangiare. Altra veranda laterale. Giardino con ombra e punti dove prendere il sole, punto pic-nic con tavolo e sedie all'ombra di un grande carrubo. Tutti gli infissi sono nuovi e muniti di zanzariere. Pratica e confortevole. Bagno privato. Varcata la soglia di ingresso troviamo un ampio soggiorno con tutti i confort. Dista dal mare solo 10 minuti di macchina. Il nostro alloggio sorge in collina, in una tranquilla zona della campagna sassarese, tra ulivi secolari e un ampio e fresco giardino con prato, per una vacanza piacevole e assolutamente rilassante.
Gli arredi sono nuovi e molto carini. E' parte di una graziosa villa composta di due appartamenti vicini ma completamente indipendenti, oltre all'alloggio di noi proprietari. Parti comuni sono: il cancello di ingresso, il parcheggio, il giardino e i vasti spazi esterni, una grande veranda sempre in comune e un'ampia zona BBQ coperta.
Sono presenti i nostri tre simpaticissimi e docili cani di piccola taglia e tre curiosissimi gatti che frequentano solo gli spazi esterni. La casa dista 3 km dal centro di Sassari, circa 35 km da Alghero, 45 km da Stintino e 11 km dalla Riviera di Sorso, comodamente e rapidamente raggiungibili con i propri mezzi. All'ombra degli ulivi The Olive's tree shadow. Comoda e confortevole , luminosa , dotata di tutti i confort , anche questa stanza ha infissi nuovi e zanzariere.
Appena riarredato e luminoso. Casetta indipendente all'interno di un cortile condominiale composta da soggiorno cucina con divano letto, tavola da pranzo e tv, camera da letto con letto matrimoniale e bagno con doccia. Casa dotata di ogni comfort, tranquilla e silenziosa, ristrutturata di recente con arredi nuovi. La Casetta nel verde. Every room has a private bathroom complete with a hairdryer, frigobar with mineral water, wifi, TV and conditionating air.
The breakfast is always included if you book for two persons. For one person bookings its only included if you book your stay for at least two nights in a row. Located in front of the city walls by the historic centre of Sassari and only 10 minutes away from the nearest beach, our Bed and Breakfast is centrally located and is ideal for travel in and around Sassari historic centre, bars, restaurants, museums etc.
Unico locale seminterrato con cucinino, bagno e cortile privato. Grande monolocale seminterrato. Molto curato nella pulizia. Connessione Internet Wi-Fii ,riscaldamento e tv a schermo piatto in ogni camera. Stenditoio, asse e ferro da stiro, asciuga capelli. Quartiere residenziale, molto tranquillo e sicuro. Famoso per i suoi viali alberati e la presenza di eleganti ville liberty.
Nello stesso isolato sono presenti: bar, supermarket, edicola, tabacchi, cinema,chiesa, teatro,lavanderia self service, ristoranti e pizzerie. A mi manera. Appartamento "mare azzurro" immerso nel verde. Delightful Loft with a mezzanine with a strong historical identity located on the ground floor. Furnished entirely in wood with living-dining room, kitchen, bathroom with shower and washing machine. The double room includes: a double-bed, a 4-door wardrobe and a sofa bed.
A Loft with an architectural style that incorporates the structure of the houses of the early 's, both in the frames and in the exposed arches. Great for a relaxing holiday or short business trips in the historic center. The house is very cozy and on two levels. The nice and wooden furniture makes it warm and with a typical family touch.
Perfect for relaxing and moving without a car in the city center. The area of Via Frigaglia is located just behind the Cathedral of San Nicola in a quite quiet street with little traffic. The shopping center "Corte Santa Maria" is about m away and perfect for all the needs related to shopping and the purchase of food.
La spiaggia di Platamona dista 8km. In casa 4 camere da letto, 2 matrimoniali, una con letto a castello ed una singola. Si trova a Sassari, su una collina che si affaccia sul Golfo dell'Asinara. Vista mozzafiato sull'agro sassarese. WiFi incluso. Animali NON ammessi. Aria condizionata per un totale di 6 ore giornaliere - dalle 20 alle 24 e dalle 7 alle 9. In totale 6 ore. Antico giardino curato in ogni particolare circonda questa villa indipendente, arredata con gusto e dotata di tutti i servizi.
La bella veranda ombreggiata ha una grande cucina esterna con tavolo per 16 persone. La grande piscina immersa nel verde ed arredata con tavoli, ombrelloni e sedie, fa da sfondo alle enormi vetrate della sala regalando una visione d'insieme unica nel suo genere. Un lettino e un seggiolone sono disponibili per le giovani famiglie con bimbi piccoli. Website hidden by Airbnb ore Check-out ore NON sono ammessi animali domestici. Saldo da pagare in contanti all'arrivo.
Aria condizionata su richiesta per un totale di 6 ore giornaliere - dalle 20 alle 24 e dalle 7 alle 9. Villa Alessandra con piscina per 7 persone. Our villa "casadellameridiana" is a heaven of peace and nature for up to 9 people. Ideally located close to major highways to visit the north of the island, it is located in Sassari, on a hill with views of the countryside and the sea. The villa of m2 is built on three levels. It can accommodate up to 9 people in real beds. A cot and a high chair are available for young families with small children.
The house is fully equipped for a hassle free stay. Air conditioning with additional charge , pool and the chidren area offer the more that make the holidays 'different' and more comfortable. The house is situated in a panoramic position especially quiet and silent, yet less than 1 km from the four lanes road on the north-south axes Porto Torres- Cagliari and east-west Alghero and Olbia. More detailed directions can be found on the web site of our casadellameridiana. Villa "casadellameridiana": air c. Our villa is surrounded by green vegetation in a relaxing environment in the peaceful countryside.
You will be hosted in a double bedroom with shared bathroom 1 bathroom for 2 bedrooms , tv and free Internet Wi-fi. We will look for another young woman. The artist will paint the birthmark on her arm, and he will dye three hairs on the nape of her neck white. The savage will not know the difference.
But the next day, even this young woman came back. He looked through the hair on the nape of my neck. In order to save the kingdom, you will have to sacrifice the princess! The king could not resign himself to this; he would rather sacrifice the blood of his own veins than give up his daughter.
But fate would have it this way, and he had to submit. The princess showed herself to be more courageous than them all. After all, the savage would not eat her! She put on a wedding gown, and accom- panied by the king, the queen, members of the court, and an im- mense number of subjects, she made her way toward the forest amid weeping and heart-rending cries.
Figuriamoci che allegrezza! Si era rizzato di terra, si era ripulito il vestitino, ed era andato via, lesto lesto, come se nulla fosse stato. Lei dunque voleva quel Nano gobbo e sbilenco? From that point, nothing was heard about her or about the savage. However, after a year, a month, and a day, there came to court a stranger who wished to speak with the king. If you give me half the kingdom as well as the hand of the princess in marriage, I will free her from the hands of the savage. Yet they went. And at sunrise, there appeared the hunchbacked, lop-sided dwarf, who was leading the princess by the hand.
She was dressed as a bride, just as she had been she entered the forest to meet the savage. Imagine what happiness! The celebrations and the banquets never ended. However, no one ever spoke of the wedding or of giving half the kingdom away. Now that he had his daughter and the savage had been killed by the dwarf, the king no longer knew how to keep his word. They went to search for him in the street, but he was gone. He had gotten up from the ground, had cleaned himself off, and had run away very quickly. It was as if he had never been there. However, from that day forward, the princess became melancholic.
She refused to speak and to laugh, and she had lost the color in her cheeks. Did you want that hunchbacked, lopsided dwarf? Il giorno delle nozze era vicino. La gente accorreva in folla nel giardino del Re, dove il cavallo di bronzo era stato collocato su un magnifico piedistallo. Restarono tutti meravigliati:- Par prop- rio vivo!
Par di sentirlo nitrire! Scese a vederlo anche il Re con la corte; e tutti:- Par proprio vivo! Solo la Reginotta non diceva nulla. Gli tastava il ciuffo, gli accarezzava il collo, lo spronava leggermente col tacco; e intanto diceva scherzando:- Cavallo, mio cavallo,Salta dal piedistallo;Non metter piede in fallo,Cavallo, mio cavallo. Tutti erano atterriti; non osavano fiatare. Ma in mezzo a quel silenzio scoppia a un tratto una risatina, una risatina di canzonatura! Il Nano continuava a contorcersi dalle risa:- Ah! Il Re esitava: avea vergogna di ricevere un calcio in quel posto, davanti al popolo e la corte.
Non abbiate paura. Non abbiate paura! The prince of Portugal sent word that he wanted to marry the princess. The princess said neither yes nor no, but the king and queen could not wait to celebrate the marriage. The prince of Portugal started his journey, and on the way he met a man who was driving a large cart with a bronze horse in it, which looked as if it were alive. The day of the wedding neared.
In the wink of a eye, the horse and the princess were no longer to be seen. The king watched, and he saw the dwarf who was writhing with laughter, he with his little hump and his crooked little legs. He knew right away that what the horse had done was the work of the dwarf. And finally, even the queen began to laugh. Only the poor king now felt scorned and humiliated, a pitiful sight. E noi restiamo a leccarci le dita. However, his love for his daughter made him consent.
With that, the dwarf ceased to be a dwarf and became a handsome, tall young man. The princess and the dwarf they always called him that became husband and wife. And here we remain, just licking our fin- gers.
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This book won the foreign section of the National Frascati award in and was rendered into Italian by Antonella Anedda and Carle. Alfredo De Palchi was born in near Verona. He grew up with his mother and grandfather and as a teenager was tortured by the Fascists and the Partisans. He was then imprisoned for six years. De Palchi has resided in New York City for over thirty years, yet maintains strong ties to his native Italy.
It consists of writing no American poet would undertake. Although his poetic line is drawn out, his poems do not tell stories. They are always based on a precise physical or concrete experience, which is then arrested and trans- formed. We can say that his style is devoid of sentimentality. De Palchi is not afraid to confront sex and eroticism with shattering metaphoric visions. The three poems here translated all from Paradigma, Mimesis Hebenon, are typical of his work from a thematic and stylistic standpoint, the erotic amorous vein, the trans- gressive spirituality, and the ever-present memory of wartime trau- mas all merge into distinctly charged poetic entities.
In uno di questi alberghi, il Phoenicia, col nome inglese pronto per ituristi americani, ci diedero una bellissima camera con la terrazza sul mareaccogliendoci con un enorme cesto di frutta. Poi ci mettemmo alla ricerca della solita guida disposta a trasportare le macchine fotografiche. Kirschenbaum Some fifteen years after the end of the war [World War II] we went to Beirut, which was then a splendid city, its shoreline studded with fabulous hotels, those that the criminal madness of munitions makers would have destroyed some twenty years later, mowing down so many human lives on the pretext of this or that ideology.
In one of these hotels, the Phoenicia, its English name ready for Ameri- can tourists, we were given a very lovely room with balcony overlooking the sea, a room that welcomed us with an enormous basket of fruit. The open-air bar was set up at a lower level than the swimming pool, and once we were seated there the swimmers could be seen from low down instead of from above. Even apart from the pool the hotel was so pleasant that we stayed there for several days just doing nothing, resting after a very exhausting trip in the Middle East.
Then we set about looking for the usual guide willing to carry around photographic equipment. He was short, fat, foul-smelling, dirty: he had everything wrong with him, and he was so disagreeable that instead of hiring him for the next day we made an appointment with him for three days later, hoping to find someone else. We visited one of the most beautiful museums ever seen, we bought some item for my ethnographic collection, Lino took tens of rolls of photographs. Thus we left by car on our own for Damascus. The road soon began to stretch out through the desert and on both sides we saw every so often Bedouins in little groups of four or five t a time.
Era una situazione senza speranza. In pochi minuti ci lasciarono passare, tutti improvvisamente sorridenti e amichevoli; ma quando arrivammo a Damasco era pomeriggio tardi, il museo era chiuso e ci mettemmo a girare alla cieca in cerca di un albergo. E inutile descrivere quello che trovammo. Le didascalie erano perfette: uno che non sapesse niente sulla storia di quei luoghi usciva che sapeva tutto. Passando davanti a uno spaccio di scarpe occidentalizzate riconoscemmo o credemmo di riconoscere da una sua strana acconciatura uno dei beduini visti il giorno prima lungo la strada: era accoccolato per terra e stava rigirando tra le mani con aria pensosa e diffidente un paio di scarpe da donna, di quelle da terzo mondo, passate di moda da dieci anni.
Arrivammo in albergo a sera avanzata e trovammo quella guida orribile ad aspettarci. Finse che avevamo sbagliato giorno, che ci aveva aspettato fin dal mattino, pretese di essere pagato. Che noia. No one was capable of reading the western alphabet and the border police kept on passing our documents from one to the other and turning them between their hands with a suspicious manner. It was a hopeless situation. In a few minutes they let us go through, all of a sudden smiling and friendly; but when we reached Damascus it was late afternoon, the museum was closed and we set out blindly wandering in search of a hotel.
Next morning we were at the door of the museum before it opened, and when they let us in we received our reward: there were tens of Sumerian statues and figurines, those famous ones seen on the dust-jackets of all the books about the Sumerians. The identifying note-cards were perfect: some- one who had never heard anything about the history of those places left knowing all.
We left again convinced that the one in Damascus, along with the one in Beirut, was one of the better arranged museums in the world and we went on our way toward the highway. Passing in front of a westernized shoe shop we recognized or thought we recognized from his strange attire one of the Bedouins seen the day before along the street. We arrived at the hotel in the late evening and found that horrible guide waiting for us. Avevo in mente che Lino se ne facesse un anello ma Lino non se lo fece mai.
La visita al Castello dei Crociati la ricordo male. Lino attraverso lo spessore dei muri non sentiva e quando riuscii a divincolarmi cominciai a correre come in un sogno angoscioso, proprio come in quei labirinti di cui si parla tanto adesso nei convegni letterari, inseguita dalla guida che rideva alla Lovecraft. E gli raccontai la mia storia. Blossom S. What a nuisance. But there were no other guides available, and we came to an agreement with him for the next day. That evening we read in the Blue Guide about what the Castle was and the next day there we were on the ancient Phoenician beach.
Young boys were in the water up to their knees. They had already raked through the sand and now they were looking around underwater for greenish Ro- man shards of glass that they sell to tourists as Phoenician and that I com- plying with the rule bought along with a lovely star in relief on a round coin fascinatingly oxidized.
I had in mind that Lino should make a ring out of it but Lino never made it. Lino, as always, pho- tographed everything without paying attention to me and while I wandered through the corridors in the darkness between high walls, dank and black, I was unexpectedly attacked by the so-called guide, who leapt upon me from behind.
Lino on the other side of the thickness of the walls did not hear and when I managed to break loose I began to run as in an anxiety nightmare, through those very labyrinths about which so much is said these days at literary conferences, closely pursued by the guide who was laughing like a maniac out of the stories of H. The more I ran the worse I got lost, and I threw myself into a state of anguish fit to tell in psychoanalysis. By pure chance I ended up, guided by a thread of light, at a sort of window where Lino was leaning to photograph the outside, and I set up a clamor.
When we went toward the exit the guide, who had made us pay in advance, had disappeared. And I told him my story. We never spoke of it further. The next day we left, with the sweet- scented slopes covered with cedars fixed in memory, beyond the bloody destruction that lay in wait for them. She originated the nationally-aired cable TV show, Italics. Riccardo Cordiferro Riccardo Cordiferro , pseudonym for poet, playwright, jour- nalist and political activist, Alessandro Sisca, emigrated to the U.
In , he, his father Francesco and brother Marziale, founded La Follia, a newspaper which was widely read in the major Eastern Italian colonies. Adapted from his similarly titled poem, it exposes the dishonesty of some Italian-Ameri- can bankers and their tragic exploitation of Italian immigrants, and touches on the emancipation of women. Cordiferro also edited manually in what is clearly his own, characteristic handwriting. The script is replete with not only literary changes but corrections of typographical errors, misspellings, capitalization, punctuation, missing words, layout, form and grammar.
The manuscript is undated, with no indication when it was typed and edited. The play was completed in and premiered in The date of this manuscript, therefore, could fall anywhere between and its last production in Audiences, composed of the displaced men and women of Italy, were hungry for enter- tainment, recognition, a support system and social intercourse, all emotional needs which the theatres and the nightclubs helped to satisfy. All these factors contributed to creating an original theatrical expression: the Italian- American immigrant theatre.
During the 19th Century, a great variety of dramatic forms and entertainments were essayed on Italian-American stages. First and foremost, audiences came to the theatre expecting to be entertained. Italian and European writers were introduced to immigrant audiences, many of whom had never before experienced the theatre or the classics of literature.
The Italian-Ameri- can experience also furnished subject matter for original plays written by Italian immigrant playwrights, among them Riccardo Cordiferro. Ad un ta tratto si sente bussare alla porta. E come osate? Che volete? Fate sempre la sostenuta voi! Siate ragionevole una volta! Io non voglio farvi alcun male. Sono venuto soltanto a trovarvi.
E con quale sfacciataggine osate affermarlo? In casa mia voi non ci dovete venire Io vi rispetto Minacciosa e terribile. Voi siete un miserabile, una spia, un traditore! Suddenly a knock is heard at the door. How dare you? What do you want? You always act aloof! Be reasonable for once! I came here only to find you. With what audacity do you dare say that? You should not be in my house. I respect you. I admire you. Menacing and terrible. You are a despicable sneak, a traitor! Con un gesto di minaccia Ah, tacete! Impedendogli di avanzarsi Si, ve lo ripeto: un miserabile, una spia, un traditore!
Non sono stato io che ho fatto arrestare vostro marito. Ma non sono una donna senza onore io, e voi ben mi conoscete! Io non desidero altro al mondo che 1' amore di mio marito! Le mostra una borsa piena di monete Se io vi offrissi questa borsa? Scagliandosi verso di lui, come una belva ferita. Vile, mille vile! Mi fate schifo With a menacing gesture Oh, shut up!
But if that were true, I would have done it to punish your pride. But I am not a dishonorable woman, and you know that very well! Love is an ironic joke when you suffer from hunger! But I never thought that when you married I would be made to beg you so much, to. With greater insistence, coming even closer to her But. He shows her a wallet full of money What if I were to offer you this wallet?
Rushing toward him like a wounded, wild beast. Coward, a thousand times coward! I Pity you. You disgust me. No amount of money would be enough to buy my honor. Get out. Get out! Riesce finalmente ad afferarla per la vita ti voglio, insomma, che ti desidero Sofia!? Ahi :. Esci, esci da qui, miserabile He finally succeeds in grabbing her at the waist I want you, finally, that I desire you Sofia!?
It will never be! In the blink of an eye she rushes to the cupboard; in a flash she pulls out a pistol and suddenly turns around It will never be! So this is the way you attack someone who wants to help you? He picks up his wallet which had fallen to the floor during the scuffle, and puts it in his pocket, always watching out for the gun aimed toward him I will go, yes.
SOFIA Following him to the door, grasping the gun, ready to pull the trigger if he lingers another minute longer. Get out, get out of here, you bum. Giuseppe lo chiama ancora una volta. Ti senti male? Ora guarirai Ma tu tremi? Che cosa hai? Io son venuto a visitarti, per vederti finalmente libero e compiacermene. Ti ho visto e me ne vado. Qualche altro giorno staremo assieme lungo tempo. Oggi, sei stanco e hai bisogno di riposo. Che cosa vuoi? Who is it? Then staring him in the face, wanting to make him understand that with his look alone his hour has come.
Do you feel sick? Short pause Take heart, because now you will get healthy. I came to visit you, to enjoy seeing you finally free. Rettile, vigliacco Ma devi morire Segue una lotta disperata a corpo a corpo. Mi assassinano! Devi morire, si Muori, o assassino! Tu non hai il dritto di vivere in mezzo a gli uomini Ho vendicato il mio onore!
My wife sleeps the eternal sleep because you, you murderer, have forced her to die. But what has this got to do with me? Snake, villain. It was you who had me arrested, to take advantage of the poverty in which she lived and to use her for your own purposes. You won, because she was afraid that I would die in jail. But you have to die. A desperate hand to hand struggle ensues. You will die, yes. Die, you murderer!
I have avenged my honor! His long and pro- ductive writing career goes from to and is remarkable for its variety. Il Doge was published in , when Palazzeschi was in his eighties, and a full six decades after his debut. The translation of Il Doge from which these pages are excerpted is meant as a step towards a fuller understanding of Palazzeschi for readers of English, providing for the first time a sample of his late narrative work. It aims to offer a readable and accessible English version of Il Doge that is nevertheless faithful to the complexity of the original.
Antonio Melchor received his Ph. Petersburg, Florida. I pessimisti non tardano a prender quota in un frangente come questo. The announcement was strictly limited to these circumstances, neither adding nor even minimally alluding to the reasons for or the cause of such an event, which produced no surprise at all among the Venetians, but only a jumble of conjectures, ideas, and comments; of differing opinions about what the Doge would say under these cir- cumstances, and how he would behave.
Some people said that the Doge was doing this only to keep alive a venerable custom, one very natural for a ruler, that allowed him to stay in uninterrupted and loving touch with his people, and that he would simply direct to the citizenry a warm, benevolent greet- ing that would be an omen of happiness, of general wellbeing, and of a long, healthy, and prosperous life for every single person hail- ing from that special place, which is not only really famous but also certainly among the most beautiful things ever seen. You bet they were careful not to say it: an unparalleled catastrophe, name- less and inexorable, unlike anything that had ever happened to any people in the world.
From his high lordly seat, they said, with its unrivalled splendor and arcane fascination, he would throw into St. Others, finally, those with an excessively prosaic spirit, entirely homespun and tranquil at all costs, completely incapable of flights of fancy, but, luckily for them, inclined always to see everything through rose-colored glasses, thereby sparing themselves any jolts or anxieties, or even minimal disturbances, especially when it might upset their digestion, predicted that once on the loggia, the Doge would limit himself to dispensing smiles, smiles and kisses, an infi- nite number of kisses delivered with a regal gesture of the hand, and so many smiles that they would confound any attempt to keep track of them or to calculate their number, so many that there would be more than enough for everyone, and not even one citizen would leave empty-handed.
The women, for their part, asked, with an insistence that be- trayed a certain impatient want, a yearning that was unchecked in the most infantile and bizarre way, if the Dogess would be appear- ing with the Doge. And they concocted the most fantastic and vivid predictions about how the First Lady of Venice would appear and behave. Knowing the great love, the consuming curiosity, the enthusi- asm that the Venetians have always had for their Doge, only one thing surprises us in this affair, leaving us in a state of wonder and taking our breath away and something had to be taken away, since we can no longer remove our hats as people used to do in the last century, when they would take off their hats at the drop of a hat and when, for the sheer pleasure of de-hatting, any excuse was good.
And this for the very simple reason that he had not let himself be seen for much too long, having withheld his person for a very extended period, thereby denying his subjects their most vivid pleasure: to see, admire, and salute their Chief of State, something we judge to be a sign of discipline, love, and respect worthy of universal emulation. But time, which during our moments of sloth appears to us in- tolerably slow in its passing, so that it seems eternal, quickly becomes quite the opposite once it has passed, so that at the end of it, even the longest life, brimming with tribulations and boisterousness, seems to us but a vague dream, evanescent and light, which we could even call a flash, or a puff like the one that blows out a candle: pfu!
So the Venetians, one can easily understand, now that they would be see- ing him again, felt like it had only been a few days since they had seen the Doge. So at nine that morning the Riva degli Schiavoni was already swarming with expectant citizens walking back and forth while they exercised themselves in discussions and predictions, pas- sionate and extremely varied, as we have previously noted.
They all walked around with their noses in the air, impatient to have the re- gal loggia opened to their view. The marble which is the handsome attire of the regal city dis- plays the bright and delicate sensitivity of its soul, mirroring the iri- descence of the water as it is orchestrated by the light of the day, changing its shape and color from one moment to the next.
In that silent glow, St. It may as well have been that, for, taken as advice, wise as it was, their words, as too often happens in cases like this, were meticulously unheeded. People noted the advance of the human suitcase sandwiches and proceeded not to move by even a fraction of an inch.
The suitcases near the major hotels were loaded onto and unloaded from motorboats and gondolas that were boarded and disembarked by strange pilgrims whose appear- ance was a marriage of beauty and oddness. They were followed by their servants, who were also weighed down with suitcases. Some looked at these suitcases with the familiarity of habit, without really seeing them, while others asked themselves what there could be in such big, beautiful suitcases: perhaps sumptuous and startling out- fits belonging to divas and other elegant ladies who would cut stun- ning figures at the various festivals celebrating cinema, music, the- ater; at palace dances, in fairy-tale nights, in passenger ships; at re- ceptions held in luxury hotels or in the glory of a yacht anchored at the shore, the gold and white crib of a fabulously rich old-timer.
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His several books, nearly all republished in the last five years, are captivating evocations of the underside of Italian life from the late s through the 60s. Duri a Marsiglia examines the underworld of organized crime in Marseilles between the two world wars.
XXV, Number 4, Spring The special ingredient in this case is the ingenious touch of compos- ing each of the stories around the preparation and consumption of a particular recipe for pasta and, in fact, the stories themselves read very much like tales told around the dinner table over coffee and dessert. He is now working on a translation of Corpo by Tiziano Scarpa Einaudi, , extracts of which will be published in the Winter and Spring issues of Raritan in Fra gli altri, scelse mio padre. E come tantissimi italiani che frequentano scuole a indirizzo tecnico, disprezzava profondamente le questioni tecniche e si occupava, appassionatamente, di letteratura.
Le sue letture, per quanto assidue ed attente, erano piuttosto disordinate. His reading, despite all of his assiduity and attention, was rather haphazard. Like all those of the generation who were born under Crispi and came of age under Giolitti, his interest for art, in- cluding poetry, was first and foremost, if not exclusively, aesthetic. Stavamo cenando. Mia nonna contemplava, come sempre, mio nonno, tacendo. E Mussolini? Mio padre chiese al colonnello Pugliese il permesso di aggregarmi alla spedizione. Naturalmente, a sue spese.
Si era in giugno. Avevo appena compiuto non so se 10 o 11 anni. Mancava una settimana alla partenza. Da dove, cambiando treno, alle prime luci dei giorno, arrivammo a Milano. Quindi, si rimise in viaggio per Brescia. Il quale ci stava aspettando davanti alla porta della villa, con un gigante barbuto alle spalle. We were eating dinner.
My maternal grandfather, at the head of the table, interrupted his savoring of a magnificent pear, accompanied by thin slices of aged parmigiano, to say that in October of , when he was four years old, his father had taken him to the fort at Varignano to see Garibaldi, wounded at Aspromonte. My grandmother, as always, gazed at my grandfather in silence.
My sister Franca, three years younger than me, had fallen asleep over a bowl of cherries. The last of the great Italians! And Mussolini? At his expense, naturally. The colonel for- warded the request to the Ministry of the Navy. The Minister, upon the favorable opinion of the Director of Personnel, said yes. It was June. I had just turned 10 or maybe We had a week to go before our departure date.
We left in the waning days of June, on a late afternoon train from La Spezia to Genoa, from where, after changing trains, we ar- rived in Milan at the first light of day. Indossava un abito di gabardine di un marrone molto chiaro. Sulla camicia avorio serpeggiava una cravatta verde ramarro. Calzava scarpe bianche dalla mascherina cannella traforata. Siate i benvenuti, uomini del mare! Non era una tavola da pranzo, quella dove sedemmo qualche ora dopo. Era una specie di altare, sul quale piatti e posate occupavano il minimo dello spazio indispensabile, in mezzo a una selva di cimeli e oggetti dal misterioso significato.
Guardavo quel briccabracche a bocca aperta. Che stessi sognando? I had imagined him not very tall, but thin. Instead, he was more stocky than short. He had on a light brown gabardine suit with an ivory shirt and a serpentine bright green tie. His feet were clad in white shoes with cinnamon-red per- forated tips. His head, perfectly bald, was tucked down a little be- tween his shoulders and his right eye was covered by a black band. Welcome, men of the sea! You must! It was a kind of altar, on which plates and silverware occupied the bare minimum of space, surrounded by relics and objects of mys- terious significance.
Propeller shards, statuettes in bronze and sil- ver, ecclesiastical chalices, shreds of damask, satin, and brocade, dag- gers of all shapes and sizes, aviator helmets, a dozen or so among them of oriflammes, pennants, and streamers, phials of colored crys- tal, a machine-gun ammunition belt with all its bullets…I looked around at all that bric-a-brac with my mouth hanging open. Was I dreaming or what? Infatti, pochi istanti dopo entrarono le clarisse. Due donne dai capelli corvini, lunghi sulle spalle, che recavano ognuna un vassoio di metallo dorato che fosse proprio oro?
Talmente ferino, nelle due ancelle del Vate, che andavano servendo la pastasciutta sorridenti e disinvolte, da procurarmi non solo stupore, ma addirittura spavento. Una malattia? Due micini neri accovacciati al calduccio? Un segno di lutto insolito? Mentre tutti gli occhi dei commensali erano fissi su di me. Guardai il piatto per la prima volta e notai che gli spaghetti non erano di forma cilindrica, come quelli di casa. E nomata pasta alla chitarra. Two women with long raven hair, down to their shoulders, each of whom was carrying a gilded metal tray could it have been real gold?
What were those dark stains? A disease? Two black kittens holed up to keep warm? Some strange sign of mourning? When Sister Pecchia as I learned afterwards she was called came over to fill my plate, my eyes re- mained glued on the tangle of her pubis. While the eyes of everyone else at the table were glued on me. And do you know why, my little blond white sailor? Al posto della quale venne poi usato un istrumento, munito di alcuni fili metallici ben tesi.
La rammenterai, angeluzzo marino? La ricordo, infatti, ogni volta che mi capita di mangiare spa- ghetti alla chitarra. E insieme ad essa ricordo anche le due macchie nere che mi apparvero, misteriose, attraverso un velo di un lievissimo color rosa. Which later on was replaced by a tool, furnished with tightly stretched metallic strings. It is said that this utensil was con- ceived by a shoemaker from Palena, on the slopes of Mt. Maiella, whose name was Manicone. That is the story of this pasta from Abbruzzo. Will you remember it, my little angelic sailor?
And along with it I also recall the two black patches that appeared to me, mysteriously, through the folds of a pallid pink veil. Professor Mortimer has published widely in the fields of Renaissance poetry and Anglo- Italian literary relations. Of his Michelangelo translations Anthony Mortimer writes: Coming to Michelangelo after translating Petrarch, I found that the major difficulty was to give a sense of the difference between the two poets while still making it clear that Michelangelo remains within the Petrachan tradition.
I do not think that sixteenth- century love poetry can be really adapted to a twenty-first century idiom and thus I am not afraid of the occasional archaism or of echo- ing Shakespeare, Sidney or Milton where this seems appropriate. I want to remind the reader of the literary context that Michelangelo shares with other major Renaissance poets.
The same strategy dic- tates my approach to rhyme. Without rhyme of some kind, a sonnet degenerates into fourteen so why not fifteen? My solution has been to exploit every variety of assonance and con- sonance, from full rhyme to the merest echo, in order to give an impression of the original rhyme scheme without indulging in the excesses of rhyme-forcing.
For an even more grotesque self-portrait, see No wonder that my mind is so far out of joint that it gets nothing right; show me the crooked barrel that shoots straight. Se ben dice il Poeta di Pistoia, istieti a mente, e basta; e se tu dici ben di Fiorenza, tu mi dai la soia. A caudate sonnet, possibly for Giovanni di Benedetto da Pistoia see 5. The violent tone seems to go beyond the jocular Berni tradition. The greatest Medico of all our ills laughed so much at the message that he blew his nose too hard and broke his spectacles.
And there are many others who would curse the name of Christ to have you here again; no harm in that, nobody thinks them worse for lack of faith. This burlesque verse-letter is a reply to Francesco Berni who had written a poem, purportedly addressed to the painter Sebastiano del Piombo in Rome, but obviously intended for MB. MB replies by impersonating del Piombo and compounds the joke by making himself the supposed bearer of the letter.
And then he said, as your good friend and mine: — See votive offerings hung and candles lit before the paintings at a holy shrine; among such paintings I must surely fit, but as a worthless botch some dauber makes, sploshed with a clumsy brush from dirty pots. But by his teaching I can still be shown the light; and what a marvel it would be to make a real man from a painted one! The lines now have a sinister overtone that MB could not have intended: in , after Carnesecchi had been found guilty of heresy, his body was burned and beheaded.
Commandatemi, e fate poi da voi. To you, whom I account most rare, I offer all that I am; and even if I lost my cowl, you must not think that I would waver. Command me, sir: and then do it yourself. Around my door I find huge piles of shit since those who gorge on grapes or take a purge can find no better place to void their guts. Within the body soul enjoys such ease that, if the plug were pulled to free a fart, it would not stay behind for bread and cheese. That blocked back door stops soul from flying out, and coughs and colds are keeping death at bay by checking breath escaping through my throat.
My happiness consists in melancholy and these discomforts are my only rest: just ask for trouble and God grants it free. Io tengo un calabron in un orciuolo, in un sacco di cuoio ossa e capresti, tre pilole di pece in un bocciuolo. Date uncertain. A burlesque portrait of the artist as an old man. Arachne challenged the goddess Athena to a weaving contest and was transformed into a spider as punishment for her presumption.
My eyes like blueish powder, ground and pounded, my teeth like keys from some botched instrument — they move, a sound comes out and then goes dead. My face is ghastly, but, if I were sent to frighten birds, my clothes alone would scare crows from dry furrows in a time of want. Love and the muses, bowers of delight, my scrawls and scribbles, end up as a lot of tavern-bills, bog-paper, brothel notes.
Making all those big dolls, I wonder what the point was, if my end is still like one who swims across the sea, then drowns in snot. Date uncertain, but before , probably The first of four sonnets exploring different attitudes towards night. The poems are later than the famous sculpture of Night in the Medici chapel. Phoebus: the sun- god.
So weak is night that in a given place its life is taken by a man who lights a little torch — so feeble it takes flight as soon as flint and tinder rend its space. In traditional Aristotelean theory only the male seed was seen as active in procre- ation. See note to You cut the thread of tired thoughts, for so you offer calm in your moist shade; you send to this low sphere the dreams where we ascend up to the highest, where I long to go.
Shadow of death that brings to quiet close all miseries that plague the heart and soul, for those in pain the last and best of cures; you heal the flesh of its infirmities, dry up our tears and shut away our toil, and free the good from wrath and fretting cares. From these were born, before the moment passed, the fortune, fate and chance of every man; I was assigned the dark time for my own, as what my birth and cradle suited best.
Moreover, the whole four-sonnet se- quence starts out with a reference to Phoebus , 1. She also works on the integration of language and culture in Italian teaching methodology. Correvo da mia madre con dei sassi solo per lasciarli cadere sotto uno sguardo cupo tanto duro che mi sentivo gettato in un bagno gelato. Ricordo le mani piegate di mio fratello nella bara, come baciai una nocca.
Piansi, arso dentro dalle fiaccole delle processioni tenute da monaci in ombra incappucciati nel loro nero passaggio per le strade anguste del mio paese, atterrendo il mio cuore per sempre. V Gobbo, riguardo i suoi anni di studio La biblioteca era un monastero; i suoi libri un santuario immortale. Arrivai a scoprire Bellezza.
Scrissi poesie, sussurrando parole al cielo. Sentii le voci angeliche dei giovani cantare amore.
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Eppure, in questi lunghi anni tra i libri morii. Invisibile la cattedrale della mia bellezza intima. I would run to my mother with stones only to drop them under a grim gaze so harsh I felt tossed in a freezing bath. V Gobbo, regarding his years of study The library was a monastery; its books a deathless sanctuary. As a closeted monk thirsts for heaven, I drank words, and beside dying candles I knelt shivering in the cold, my eyes aching. I came to discover Beauty. I wrote poems, whispering words to the sky. Yet, during these long years with books I died. A girl called me crooked. Invisible, the cathedral of my inner beauty.
Rage crawled, a gnawing in my mind. O forse il suono di un telaio ordito nella voce di una giovane donna che canta mentre lavora nel calore estivo. Mi scottarono sogni deliquescenti? Furono loro il mio vero amore, massicci come oro. Sul suo terreno scuro, seminai fregi. Questi divennero colline solitarie, notti al chiaro di luna, momenti sacri nei campi dopo la pioggia. Catturai nel mio diario, in note staccate, la vita del mio paese, una vita che potevo assaporare solo dalla finestra del mio studio dove rimanevo a contemplare un mondo a me chiuso per sempre. La mia solitudine crebbe come la luna sottile, bassa nel cielo sereno.
Indugia la mia poesia, un silenzio. Or maybe the sound of a loom raddled into the voice of a young girl who sings as she works in the summer heat. It is never the girl herself, never anyone particular, only a voice, a smile, a gaze. Ah Nerina, ah Sylvia, when I greeted you, the greeting exploded into shards of piquant fancy, splinters of desire yes, I read Werther , and I walked away pursing my lips into a kiss that I would never give. Did deliquescent dreams scald me?
They were my real love, solid like gold. Onto its dark soil, I broadcast vignettes. These grew into lonely hills, moonlit nights, sacred moments in fields after rain ends. My loneliness waxed like the thin moon low in the cloudless sky. Imagine: the first firefly of summer languidly floating, the mind exhaling its thin breath into the thick evening. My poetry lingers, a silence. It was then that I fully appreciated the humility of this great poet and loved the totally unselfish way with which he praised my poetry and encouraged me to continue along my chosen path.
But I am only a poor agrarian student doing a stint for Approdo Letterario a literary magazine in Turin, Northern Italy. To me, Betocchi is a writer who communicates clearly, but also one who has persistently investigated the riddle of things, and felt the need to translate that enigma into the mirror of his poetry. Even love, that in Betocchi always starts with the purest intent, is modified with the passing of time into something tedious or murky.
Yet in Betocchi there is also a morbidity, a restless dissatisfaction that prevents him from entirely trusting the will of God. During the war, the motherland became absurd. In it everything turned to aridity, degradation and ruin: You know the stone larks, the sandstone pebbles waiting for you on the road, immobile, in the evening hours; you who return and kick them with your foot, and a white cloud ascends, the laid calcareous pebbles blue like the neck of victims of the marsh hunters when it is evening, and they limp off to die together with the worn street pebbles: this is not being snarled in hedges, or falling into lakes— now a white cloud climbs up the mountains, becomes dying, you know, narrower always the path of death, and the blue most intense.
The danger of song, he called it—an easy and gratuitous consolation. In this spirit, Indian Summer opens a new page in his creative progress. Patience becomes the cardinal virtue in this collection and a firm belief that the single poet is less than the sum of his worthy peers. It arises from the shop of a craftsman or a mechanic: irregular or steady off the diurnal clangor of the street, frail and true for its feigning a rustic tune that in its way consoles me. I know it for a fact—true, humble sound of a craftsman—and the rest is fiction.
The long steps of prose accompany his last compositions: a poetics of extreme reduction, of Lenten poverty— the stigma of his unique way of being a Christian. Filtered through Petrarch and John Donne, conjugal love blooms into a series of outstanding sonnets that breathe the air of Paradise. The joyous utterances well mask the extreme refinement of form, where music becomes mean- ing, meaning is easily transformed into song. Near the end of his verse, and of his life, Betocchi dances like David, and like David howls in despair.
If you are not here even silence harbors minuscule hells where inert will in fluctuating mirrors is nothing but non-presences reflected. John, Peter, lovely names of men called out loudly in the rooms, this is the earth! To the wind, if it listens to it, the bare spirit is exile; if one listens to it, I love you, from the windows day is breaking. The overseer cut a notch on the bark of an alder cane after each trip.
Alder rod, the marks that nick your back like a silent flute are the forty pails of gravel that lie on the stately heads of the women who carried them up from the river, hesitant in a gleam of silence, and your bark retraces their tired steps, backs up the sad chorus they sing. You are a number and I sing you; vicious water stagnates under the sun: each notch peels the bark off, dries up a face.
John the Divine in New York. Some Notes on G. I had never even heard of Belli before, and I wrote to the editors expressing my delight in his extraordinary voice and my amazement that this light had been hidden so long under such a great bushel. Her essay still seems to me to be the best thing written on Belli in En- glish. It is a sign of his own significance that he tends to be compared to writers whose names are now adjectives. Burgess thought him Joycean in his lin- guistic inventiveness, and surely he is Whitmanesque in the large- ness of his populist sympathies, as well as Chekhovian in his clarity and compression.
In this latter quality perhaps he outdoes even Chekhov, squeezing an entire short story into fourteen lines. His saeva indignatio: Swiftian. His translators should perhaps work together in teams, on eight-hour shifts. Next, I became a bookseller: did worse. Resolved then on another change of course And gave myself up to the trade of pimping.
A third of the members of the Sacred College Line up to take the merchandise at hand. Abbots and Monsignors are my clients, And husbands, widows, lonely spinsters, who Can count on satisfaction with reliance. So, from the Marches, he brought back an ass Devoid of pretense, conceit or trickery, Who chomped the clover and the chicory Before his home, an emperor of grass.
Belli I After a bite, the three men and the beast Set on their journey at the break of day And traveled over a hundred miles at least, Walking and praying the entire way. That butcher of a parent raised the cleaver And poised it at the throat of his poor cock.
In sum, dear friends, I really must be brief: This lengthy narrative has exhausted me; The ram was slain and Isaac given life. The patriarch at full speed fled, afraid, Scarce pausing to take breath until night came; At which point, both his daughters had the same Desire, as usual, for getting laid. Un bucio ar zolaro!
Va che lo scudo mio cerca er compaggno? He had an awful scare! He raised his head—she gave another one. Tell me why you, for good or ill, appear; What do you seek to do or have undone? A hole! Dunque, in causa di questo giovanotto, Tornate, figlia, con cuore trafitto, Domani, a casa mia, verso le otto. Begin with the Confiteor.
I did. Act of Contrition? Is there more? I stole from him a dollar fifty cents. What else? Any more to tell? A bit of that and this. But always in the designated place? And in the other. O beastly sinfulness! And so because of your young reprobate, Come, with repentant heart and downcast face, Tomorrow, daughter, my house, about eight.
The editor will select one poem for each poet and provide both the Italian and the English translations, thus acting as a bridge between them. In this manner two poets, whose approach to poetry may be quite different, will be conversing through the translator. I would like to thank Alessandro Carrera and Joseph Tusiani for their helpful suggestions. Claudio Damiani lives in Rome. He has published five collections of poetry: Fraturno , La mia casa , La miniera , Eroi , and Attorno al fuoco , finalist at Viareggio Prize A wall, beginning. Tonight it coaxed music from a Harlem cloudbank.
It was on the surfaces of its beginnings, but outside looking in. The lapse-blue facade of Harlem Hospital is weatherstill like a starlit lake in the middle of Lenox Avenue. I touched the tattoed surfaces of my birthplace tonight - and because tonight is curing, the beginning let me through; and everywhere was blurring halogen. Love the place that welcomed you. Solo un muro che iniziava. Stanotte blandiva musica da un banco di nubi sopra Harlem. Ama il luogo che ti ha accolto. I can sit a moment here and breathe, I can capture the notes and listen to them one by one, and marvel at their magnificent order.
I can suffer, and allow my suffering to enter this calm, I can bleed and yet remain, remain still, seated, letting them carry me away. The story is quite simple: an eight-year-old, American- born girl, Maria Molly is taken by her uncle and aunt to Italy where, thanks to the fresh, invigorating air of the Lucchese region, she quickly recovers from her in- cipient tuberculosis.
Yes, the story is quite simple. The little American-born girl recov- ers, but, in the meantime, Grandmother dies — of what? One more note: Pascoli did not invent this story. La strada, con quel tempo, era deserta.
Erano stanchi! Avean passato il mare! Fradicio e contento veniva piano dietro tutti il nonno. On a night such as that the road was empty. Grim and heavy — soft no longer — now the rain on their umbrella beat as on a drum. They were so tired though! Grandfather, soaked and happy, trailed behind — the last of all. Ed era buia la cucina allato. La mamma? Forse scesa per due ciocchi No, era al focolare sopra i due ginocchi. Avea pulito greppia e rastrelliera; ora, accendeva Appariva nel buio a poco a poco.