And again, at night, upon going to bed my hand reached for the silk of her tormented little head. Era anziano e malato. Era stato un buon pianista. E adesso, in poltrona, leggeva una partitura, eseguendola in mente.
He was old and sick. He had been a fine pianist.
And now, in his armchair, he read a score and played it in his head. And thought is something no less incredible, if you think about it, this nothing that becomes word and movement, the stream of terms that exercises its right to be pronounced in silence and flow here transcribed, the immaterial within the material -or perhaps in its void -like Grace in its mortal body. Her PhD is in Paleoanthropology, and her studies took her to Middle Paleolithic excavations in France and Germany, where her long- dormant love of languages was rekindled.
After a second visit to Italy in , she began studying Italian at the University of Ari- zona, beginning with Italian and proceeding through all the undergraduate courses. She discovered her passion for translat- ing with the very first poem in a level Italian literature class, and began translating WWII-era short stories in with Beppe Cavatorta. He is the editor of several books and anthologies: Bal- leriniana with Elena Coda, , A. He is also the author of Scrivere contro Writing against, , in which he recreated a profile of experimental writing in Italy from the be- ginning of the twentieth century to the late s.
Cavatorta also specializes in the theory and practice of translation and cultural interchange. Cavatorta is finally the co-editor with Luigi Ballerini of Those who from afar Look Like Flies, an anthology of Italian poetry from Officina to the present. The second volume is in the making. In , after living in various small towns throughout Italy, he settled in Rome, where he taught elementary school for the rest his life.
With Il seme del piangere The seed of tears, the poet returns to the style of his early collections and more traditional poetic forms. The comprehensive col- lection Tutte le poesie The collected poems; published by Garzanti in contains numerous previously uncollected poems. Caproni was an amateur violinist, and music is central to this collection, in which the rhythm of the poems mirrors that of the hunt, a symbol for the attempt to capture meaning through poetry. After the death of Caproni in , Giorgio Agamben edited a new collection of his poems entitled Res amissa Things removed.
Le riconosceva una per una, come il pastore riconosce le sue pecore, e nel sole infinito che batteva su di esse fermava a lungo lo sguardo su quelle pietre cariate — sul suo paese tagliato dalla rotabile a fondo valle, con tutte le case vecchie ad eccezione della sua e di poche altre, candide pei muri di calce al sole. Her eyes came to rest on each, confirming them one by one, as a shep- herd does his sheep.
And as the endless sun beat down on them, her gaze came to rest at last upon those crumbling stones — upon her village divided by the road at the bottom of the valley, upon all the old houses with their white-washed walls except for hers and a few others glowing in the sun. But, she regained her composure — she had quietly accepted this new force growing in her; it was almost as if she had discovered that she was pregnant again.
And without answering the children, filled with a profound sense of calm, she took them back to the place of her self-imposed exile over the stable in Casanova. And looking at those planks, with cracks as wide as a finger letting the sour stink of the animals waft up, looking at her children who were so vulnerable, she wanted to explain to them the thing that she could not explain even to herself—she would have liked to instill in them at least a little of the immense hot tide that was in her, that thing that she seemed no longer able to contain.
Right now they are there, and our house is no longer our own. She laid them gently on the planks, in the pungent warm air that came up from the barn, and as soon as they had fallen asleep, she had drifted back into her thoughts. In her mind, she was climbing up the ridge and staring one-by-one JIT Un uomo, pensava Rina, simile alla gente nostra — un uomo con le nostre parole liguri sulle labbra ma incomprensibile per il significato diverso che in lui prendevano le stesse parole usate da lei o dette dalla sua gente a lei.
E le pareva proprio di sentirsi ancora una volta incinta ripensando alla sera in cui il tenente con un libro in mano era disceso in cucina dalla camera a lei usurpata. Io ammirerei suo marito se fosse qui con noi. Li ripeteva lenti — erano versi penetrati in lei lentamente, una nostalgia di lui, non ligure, per lei e i monti della Liguria di lei.
Li aveva scritti suo marito in guerra e cosa poteva capire del loro lamento il tenente fascista? She saw the lieutenant in her most private room sleeping in her bed, with a machine gun on her pillow. He is a man, thought Rina, not unlike our people — a man who speaks our Ligurian dialect, but is somehow incomprehensible; he spoke the same words that she used and that others spoke to her, but their meanings were twisted and distorted coming from his lips.
Il tempo tagliato on korzmengorari.ga *FREE* Il tempo tagliato (La Gaja scienza Vol. Hardcover; Publisher: Longanesi; Language: Italian; ISBN Il destino del leone: Il ciclo dei Courteney (La Gaja scienza) (Italian Edition) by . Il tempo tagliato (La Gaja scienza) (Italian Edition) by Silvia Longo — not in.
She saw again in her mind the lieutenant entering her house for the first time with his men, and she finally concluded this: this man must be destroyed. Because this is what she had felt: as soon as the Alpine Fascists had arrived, everything had turned toxic to her even the apple blossoms, even the red rocks and pines of her Valtrebbia, even the deep blue river running between the red stones and the crystalline sky of the Valtrebbia as if it all had been ruined by some invisible stain.
And now the warm and infinite wave that was in her grew as she replayed in her mind the Fascist officer in the semi-dark kitchen giving her orders with a voice that had tried in vain to be kind, while his men were taking over her rooms and her kitchen utensils. Rooms and utensils that they had stolen, just as they had stolen the Ligurian words — stolen, not in the sense that those things belonged to her the partisans had also used those rooms and things, except that in that case, it was natural and right, as if she herself had used them , but rather, she recognized, because the Fascists had used those very things against her, by making her an instrument in their scheme, and thus turning her against every true thing.
And it felt again as if she were pregnant, thinking of the night when the lieutenant had come down to the kitchen, down from the bedroom he had stolen from her, with a book in his hand. I would admire him if he were here with us. In any case, here is a truly beautiful poem, with words that even I understand. Now Rina repeated the verses to herself from memory, just to make them real again.
She recited them slowly — they were verses that entered her slowly: the longing of JIT E la paura le era venuta la notte, dormendo con la madre vecchia e i bambini in cucina. He had written these words in war. What of their lament could this Fascist lieutenant possibly understand? But it was exactly this that infuriated her: that in fact, he did understand. And because of this, she felt him now, with those intimate words coming from his mouth, more than ever her enemy over there in her bed; he was clearly a wrong that must be righted at all cost.
And now I can say that we will go back tomorrow. The woman had fallen sound asleep in front of the JIT Volle lei stessa chiudere gli occhi ai morti e prima che ad ogni altro a Sardegna morto col pugno chiuso. When the first firing began, she told the children, who had been startled awake, that a show had begun. The October nights were becoming quite cold, so Rina hurried quickly to the house that was finally hers again. There were still fresh droppings from mules and horses on the road through Loco, and in the house an unbearable musty smell of strangers.
But why had that hot wave inside her not cooled? She had heard that four partisans had been killed, finished off by the lieutenant just before he left, each with a shot to the neck, and that was foremost in her mind — more than the intense joy that her house was her own again. Really, and she felt quite sincere thinking this she would have preferred to lose the house than to have these men lose their lives.
Because she felt vaguely that they had died for her, so that she could take back her house—for herself, for her children, and also for her husband, whenever he might return. Il Natale diceva Pablo Ma il Natale non era sotto quegli alberi vetrificati di gelo e di luna. She wanted to close the eyes of the dead herself, and first among them, Sardegna who lay with fist clenched.
A fist, even when abandoned on the cement that way, that before was truly hard and Ligurian, despite his assumed name of Sardegna. And at last, without a tear, she knew that she had found a match for that immense, almost living thing in her belly: it was the same thing locked inside that fist, which no power on earth would ever release.
Per- haps it was one of the last chestnut husks, weighed down by the snow. All four of them were focusing on those soft thuds each clump fell, echo- ing the distant muffled rumble of mortar fire.
With almost every blast — maybe while someone a child, a little girl, a mother died because of that strike, under the rubble of a wall -- another clump of snow slid from the trees, and fell softly as Pablo continued talk- ing, and someone died. But while the bells were silent, and not one single light was on, why did Pablo, continue to speak on that night between the 24th and 25th of December of Christmas that was no longer there, either, a few kilometers away from the village?
The clumps of snow continued to fall softly, echoing the distant mortars. It was a night, this is certain: one night of the year and of man. Le traduzio- ni sono comparse sulla rivista El Ghibli - e su altre riviste online e cartacee. Le sue raccolte poetiche sono state tradotte in varie lingue, tra cui francese, spagnolo, norvegese, finlandese, sloveno e afrikaans. Le sue poesie sono state pubblicate in oltre 50 antologie e libri di testo.
Libri e tascabili Prairie Pub Poems tascabile, poesia.
Ludwig is neither a translator nor a proofreader, but a linguistic search engine that exploits the power of Big Data in combination with our proprietary search algorithm which is specialised in analyzing language and sentences. In seguito agli avvenimenti descritti nel libro e dopo la fine del conflitto, negli anni '50, diventa allenatore e interprete della nazionale di sci italiana che accompagna ad Aspen, in Colorado, per i mondiali. The magnificent ceremonies of his coronation, on 23rd January, , 1 marred though they were for the more superstitious by the evil auguries of a thunderstorm and a street brawl in which no little blood was shed, had left an ineffaceable impression of splendour and dignity. True, he had to wait some twenty-seven years for formal canonisation ; but when Boniface in one of his moments of reconciliation with Philip the Fair issued from Perugia the bull of the grandfather's sainthood, he was but doing an act of tardy justice, in contemporary eyes, and setting the Church's seal upon an accomplished fact. It was a time of comparative peace throughout the Western world. Acne Studios eher nicht. Un altro passo Italian Edition Danilo Diotti.
Sesame Press, Windsor, Ancestral Dances poesia. Jan Lake Poems poesia.
Air Canada Owls poesia.