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Skip to Content. Toggle navigation Carolina Digital Repository. Help Contact Us Login. You do not have access to any existing collections. You may create a new collection. APA Coluzzi, S. Structure and interpretation in Luca Marenzio's settings of Il pastor fido. Chicago Coluzzi, Seth J. Originating in the settings of Luca Marenzio and Giaches de Wert in , the Pastor fido madrigal tradition stretches well into the seventeenth century and involves nearly every major madrigalist of the time.

This study of Marenzio's Pastor fido settings first considers the cultural and historical milieu that surrounded the composer in s Rome-the literary debates, patronage, and the interactions of various intellectuals associated with the play including Guarini, Torquato Tasso, Cinzio Aldobrandini, Scipione Gonzaga, and Leonardo Salviati -and the effects this setting potentially had on his work.

Detailed analyses of his Pastor fido and other madrigals then examine Marenzio's treatment of Guarini's poetry, elucidating how structure and text are integrated in his works to produce musical readings that are highly sophisticated and show remarkable sensitivity to the details of the poem.

At the same time, the study reexamines our understanding of mode and how modal music operates. Following a review of prevailing perceptions of mode and musical structure in pre-Baroque music, a new approach to the analysis of late- Renaissance polyphony is developed by incorporating principles of sixteenth-century theory into the notions of hierarchical and teleological structure of Schenkerian analysis. This analytical system recognizes the text and music as central elements of the music's structure, and deals with pre-tonal music in a way that is both effective and historically accountable.

Finally, this dissertation calls into question current views of the broader function of the madrigal in music history, and of how the madrigal functioned as a rendering of the lyric io for its contemporary readership. The analyses of Marenzio's and Wert's madrigals demonstrate the ability of the madrigal to project and accommodate at once multiple interpretative dimensions. But English, rather, you could say. From the fair hair? The joyful pirouette? What disappointments the youth of others will give us from now on. Adesso dentro lei par sempre sera. Comunicazione interrotta Il telefono tace da giorni e giorni.

Not long between two gulfs of cries the street, all houses, runs; but of a sudden a breach opens it where gaunt kids break through and perhaps the sun in spring. Now, within, it seems always evening. Beyond, it grows still darker, the street is ashes and smoke. Clicking heels of teenagers mock at that pain, the improvised strain of an opera duet at a small crowd converging. Interrupted Communication The telephone has not rung for days and days.

E tu, quanti anni per capirlo: troppi per esserne certo. Ma come tarda la luce a ferirmi. Voldomino, volto di Dio. Un volto brullo ho scelto per specchiarmi nel risveglio del mondo. And you, how many years to grasp it: too many to be certain. Journey at Dawn How many years, what months, what seasons in the course of a single night: a night of footsteps and tolling bells. But how the sun comes late to wound me. But say to me a single word and my soul will be serene. Nella neve Edere?

Dove portavano, quali messaggi accennavano, lievi? Non tanto banali quei segni. Per una traccia certa e confortevole sbandavo, tradivo ancora una volta. In the Snow Ivy? Where were they leading, what messages hinting at, tenuous? Not so trivial those signs. And what if they were a scatter of hens— so long as it sang out clear, the invitation of a sky-blue slaver in the weak daylight.

But already it rained on the snow, the cherished enigma hardening again. For a sure and comfortable trace I strayed, betraying once more. There remains to me a city close to sleep in earliest springtime. Ma che mai voleva col suo sguardo la bionda e luttuosa passeggera? But whatever did she want with her glance, the blonde and mournful passerby? Between us was my glancing back and, barely audible, a voice: love—it was singing—and beauty reborn. On the Zenna Road Again Why do these troubled branches touch me? Under my eyes the coastline brought on by the road is forming itself always unchanged and not changed by my motor nor, lower, that sudden wind which troubles it and at the next bend will, perhaps, die down.

So pity then for the troubled branches called forth a moment in the spiral of wind that will soon drop away from me waving goodbye goodbye. And now already changed the motor checks an instant and then is released from immense sleep and another landscape turns and goes by. Even so, a day was enough. How many clouds for one that came have set themselves in motion che strette corrono strette sul verde, spengono canto e domani e torvo vogliono il nostro cielo. The Sharks What escapes of us on the line of the current?

Folta di nuvole chiare viene una bella sera e mi bacia avvinta a me con fresco di colline. Anche i nostri, fra quelli, di una volta? Dunque ti prego non voltarti amore e tu resta e difendici amicizia. An ill humor grazes the city for Orlando ensnared at half distance and at the window in vain still young in years and beautiful still Angelica appears.

Voices of after the race, bitter voices: with them they bear on a wave of remorse a futile passion in shreds. Outside again love is close by me and friendship. Even our own, amongst those, of that time? Le sei del mattino Tutto, si sa, la morte dissigilla. E infatti, tornavo, malchiusa era la porta appena accostato il battente. E spento infatti ero da poco, disfatto in poche ore. What do I hope for more lost among things.

Six in the Morning Death breaks the seal, just so, of everything. Non dunque tutte spente erano le sirene? Volevano i padroni un tempo tutto muto sui quartieri di pena: ne hanno ora vanto dalla pubblica quiete. Col silenzio che in breve va chiudendo questa calma mattina prorompe in te tumultuando quel fuoco di un dovere sul gioco interrotto, la sirena che udivi da ragazzo tra due ore di scuola.

Then not all the sirens were silenced? O voice now banned, already split, O two-tongued spirit between vibrant days-to-come and wasted time, O silenced music towering and sad already. In the bitter and empty air a ghost of sound from the stopped sirens, no more a voice but in brief shudders in ever slower waves a smell of rubber compounds, a trace of blood and toil.

Quel fragore. Lavorarono qui, qui penarono. E oggi il tuo pianto sulla fossa comune. The visit grazes towers, now, gangways, and only just begun: it descends in an uproar as if underground, which still has rule and center and somebody shows you. A work cycle? Piecework, what is it? That uproar. Here at their posts are those swarming outside a few moments ago: what do you know of them, what do we know you and I, of their skill unaware.

Closed in an order, deliberate and quick, condemned to a line of well-being not missing a beat—and above it all the implacable and hypnotic dance of pieces from one room to another. And today your weeping on the common tomb. Loro almeno sanno quello che vogliono. Non esiste. Dimmi subito che mi pensi e ami. Ti richiamo sul tardi—. They at least know what they want. Non pareva il mattino nato ad altro? Ma in terra di colpo nemica al punto atteso si arroventa la quota. The prophetic soldier. But at the point expected on suddenly hostile terrain the heights become red-hot.

Uno spaurito scolaro. Oh le frotte di maschere giulive oh le comitive musicanti nei quartieri gentili. Discovery of Hatred Here was the wrong, here the inveterate error: to believe that nothing could be gained but love. Oh the swarms of festive masks oh the music-making parties in genteel districts. The highest balcony gives back other music to the night and beyond city gates the road leads blossoming once more?

Un giorno. E questi no, non li perdoneranno. Saba Berretto pipa bastone, gli spenti oggetti di un ricordo. Lo guardava stupefatta la gente. Di schianto, come a una donna che ignara o no a morte ci ha ferito. One day. Saba Beret pipe stick, the lifeless objects of a memory. But I saw them brought to life on one roaming in an Italy of dust and rubble. It was Italy he meant. Abrupt, as to a woman who knowingly or not has wounded us to death. Poche ore. Una luce mai vista. Fiori che in agosto nemmeno te li sogni.

Sangue a chiazze sui prati, non ancora oleandri dalla parte del mare. Caldo, ma poca voglia di bagnarsi. Ventilata domenica tirrena. Situazione La forza del luogo comune, dolorosa. Seggiole in tondo, sdrai. Generalmente calmi. Sul rovescio del luogo comune le campane del vespero. E attorno le rondini a migliaia. An hour or two. Light you never see.

Hot, but no real wish to go swimming. Wafted Tyrrhenian Sunday. Am I already dead and come back here? Or the only one living in the vivid and still nothing of a memory? Situation The force of the commonplace, grievous. The sprinkler jet in the grasses, unnoticed sigh.

The garden as evening draws in. Chairs, in a circle, reclining. Familiar glances cross: one only evasive. For the most part calm. On the reverse of the commonplace, the vespers bells. For century after century at this hour a still warm coil of blood and sense. And round about the swallows in their thousands. I am all of this, the common place and its reverse beneath the vault as the last light withdraws. E oggi? Non lasciatemi qui solo —stai per gridare—ritornate.

Ma ecco da dietro uno scoglio sempre forte sui remi spuntare in soccorso il Giancarlo. E ti sembra un miracolo. And now? What times—you murmur—always more muddled what turmoil of boats and engines what an assortment of fauna on the sea. And to you it seems a miracle. Mi prende sottobraccio.

Potrei con questa uccidere, con la sola gioia. Ma dove sei, dove ti sei mai persa? But that other thing now and then making its way in me, that includes the others and makes them shine, believe in it, rare as this September morning. I was fairly talking to myself of you: of joy. I could kill with this, with joy alone. Climbed down at the crossing, a tram driver operates the points with his bar, restarts the days and noise. Che presto saranno spenti. Presto sullo sparato del decoro il bruco del disonore.

I giornali attorno ai chioschi garruli al vento primaverile: viene un tale, canaglia in panni lindi, su titoli e immagini avventa un suo cagnaccio. Approvazioni, intorno, risa. E dopo, che fare delle domeniche? Aizzare il cane, provocare il matto.

Occhi vaghi e leggiadri scored for SATB Choir

Non lo amo il mio tempo, non lo amo. That will soon be lifeless. Was there ever anything else to do on Sundays? All around: approvals, laughter. And after, what to do on Sundays? Goad the dog, incite the madman. Italy will slumber with me. Area da costruzioni—con le case qui giungeremo tra non molto. Ma poi, divisi dalla folla separati passando tra la folla che non sa, cosa vive di un giorno?

Qui dunque si chiude la giovinezza, su uno scambio di persona?

a work in progress

Then is youth ended here, in a mistaken identity? Solitudine, solo orgoglio. I versi Se ne scrivono ancora. Se ne scrivono solo in negativo dentro un nero di anni come pagando un fastidioso debito che era vecchio di anni. Nemmeno io volevo questo che volevo ben altro.

Si fanno versi per scrollare un peso e passare al seguente. Corso Lodi E—disse G. Solitude, only pride. You think of them lying to anxious eyes that wish you well on the last night of the year. Some laugh: you were writing for Art. Not even I wanted that who wanted far better. Corso Lodi So—said G. Poetry Is a Passion? Rabbiosamente non voleva sciogliersi. Per una voce irrotta nella stanza. He was dying of apprehension and jealousy so much so he wished himself dead, he wished it truly, there in her arms. A Sunday in August was, outside, at its height and all of Italy in piazzas, bars, on the avenues, stuck in front of televisions.

And, the convulsive grip persisting which on instinct she redoubled , blindly one hand fumbled with the set, turned a dial: in the room at once the race appeared, and came between them. For a voice irrupted in the room. Vollero che li leggessi. Per tre per quattro pomeriggi di seguito scendendo dal verde bottiglia della Drina a Larissa accecante la tradotta balcanica.

She can understand her man: knows well the more he imagines he beats them the better she enthralls him and holds him as long as she wants. And if it seems to him a barely perceptible shudder encroaches on the still-warm breeze that reaches to the terrace: August too —she suddenly says, remembering— August too has gone forever. Yes I too have loved those lines. They wanted me to read them. Those lines felt far away to me, very far away from us: but it was what remained, a manner of speaking between us— smiling or foreboding, trusting or alarmed, believing in the war or not believing— during that summer of iron.

Perhaps no one has caught so well this moment in the year. Volli tentare ancora. Avvinghiati lottammo alla spalletta del ponte in piena solitudine. La rissa dura ancora, a mio disdoro. A leaden body without face blocked my way. I wanted one last try. Una vecchia vermiglia del suo riso. Maschera detta amore, bella roba che sei. An old woman scarlet with laughter. The birds sang from the waterways and how many still-green leaves intact autumn bore in her womb.

And nothing beside her scarlet laughter was the catholic twilight, nothing her mourning weeds. And nor do I know how much she saw of us glowing from the day and whatever. Ero, come sempre, in ritardo e il funerale a mezza strada, la sua furia nera ben dentro il cuore del paese. Il posto: quello, non cambiato—con memoria di grilli e rane, di acquitrino e selva di campane sfatte— ora in polvere, in secco fango, ricettacolo di spettri di treni in manovra il pubblico macello discosto dal paese di quel tanto. Mi volsi per chiederlo alla detta anima, cosiddetta.

Immobile, uniforme rispose per lei per me una siepe di fuoco crepitante lieve, come di vetro liquido indolore con dolore. And from that day and that hour my love I never spoke to you of love. Interview with a Suicide The soul, what we call the soul and is nothing but a pang of remorse, slow reproof on the shadow of farewell, upbraided me from the banks. I was late, as usual, and the procession halfway there, its black fury well within the heart of the town.

With what relation to eternity? Motionless, unvarying a burning bush replied for it for me crackling lightly, like liquid glass, painless in pain. I hurled at the glare. It was eternity itself childish with terrors red upon red, the ravenous yawn of boredom with the sound of rain on churchyards. E quelli qui restati?

Drexel 4302

And those left behind here? La solitudine? O miei prodi. Il sonno. The solitude? And six feet underground? O my brave ones. O slumberer, what kind of thing is sleep? And here he is amongst the innocent babes astonished in the marble as if a Thou should truly ritornare a liberare i vivi e i morti. E quante lagrime e seme vanamente sparso. Non che sia questo la bellezza, ma la frustata in dirittura, il gesto perentorio sul cruccio che scempiamente si rigira in noi, il saperla sempre a un passo da noi, come again to free the quick and dead.

And how much seed, what tears vainly shed. Dunque via libera, e basta con le visioni! Ce ne furono tanti che crollarono per sola fame beauty, in a sparkling air: this, which libertines darkly search for and that work has taught me. All clear then, give up those visions! From Holland amsterdam Chance led me there between nine and ten one Sunday morning, turning at a bridge, one of many, to the right along a canal half-iced over. There were many who were broken simply out of hunger senza il tempo di scriverlo. Floridi, chiassosi pieni zeppi di valuta. Sono buoni clienti, non si possono respingere.

Informazioni, quante vogliono. Non si tratta di rappresaglia o rancore. Questo dicono le facce arrossate dal freddo fuori dalla messa cattolica a Volendam, la nenia del vento volubile tra i terrapieni. Florid, rowdy loaded with currency. Information, as much as they want. Not a word more. Take heed. The Unjust Pity They take me aside, they chide me: il faut faire attention, vous savez. Solo adesso si comincia a capire. Ci conta ci pesa ci divide. E tutti quanti come niente—come la notte ci dimentica. Tutti alle Case dei Sassoni—rifacendo la conta. Mai stato in Sachsenhausen? Mai stato. Only now do we start to comprehend.

Or just—through a careless thought, through that moment of pity—that hand, that stump of hand on a wall. It counts us, weighs us, separates us. And each and everyone as nothing—as the night disremembers us. In the True Year Zero Just as well, he said, the most jovial: just as well all were there. Ever been to Sachsenhausen? Never been. Ma certo, alle case dei Sassoni. Ma quante Sachsenhausen in Germania, quante case. Tutto ingoiano le nuove belve, tutto— si mangiano cuore e memoria queste belve onnivore.

No, never. But in Germany, how many Sachsenhausens, how many houses. They skip into a nightclub beneath the clair de lune.

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Vi dico che non era un sogno. Metropoli Altri poi vengono: altri, di altro tipo. Con frange magari, con lenti spesse e cupe magari di forte armatura—testa tutta di testa tutta tecnica, tutto il resto di plastica dottorini di Oxford. Metropolis Then others come: others, of another kind. With fringes perhaps, with thick and dark lenses perhaps strong framed—head, all head all technicalities, all the rest of plastic little doctors of Oxford.

Certo chi muore. Here our faces glowed in the shade, in the rosy light the trees rained near nine of an evening in June? Whoever dies of course. Turned from them, I sense the animation of the leaves and in that the storm making headway.

Pantomima terrestre. Chiaro che cerca di prendermi per il mio verso. Vuoi testimoni? Prove per assurdo? Pare bastargli: ma dunque benedicente, bonario ma allora, coraggio! Per giravolte di scale va su col suo coraggio. Parli—gli grido dietro— come un credente di non importa che fede. Earthly Pantomime. Sure—I reply though—stupendous. Want witnesses? Up twistings of stairs go he and his courage.

You speak—I call behind— like a believer in no matter what faith. La spiaggia Sono andati via tutti— blaterava la voce dentro il ricevitore. Ma oggi su questo tratto di spiaggia mai prima visitato quelle toppe solari. E zitti quelli al tuo voltarti, come niente fosse. But today on this stretch of beach never visited before those sunlight patches. In una casa vuota Si ravvivassero mai. Sembrano ravvivarsi di stanza in stanza, non si ravvivano veramente mai in questa aria di pioggia. In an Empty House If they ever came back to life. It has come back to life—me suddenly a seer in the slow brightening— that host of buttercups and daisies outside.

Provided there were. Posto di lavoro Quei gradini dove fa gomito la scala, tutta quella gente passata e ripassata ogni giorno: per lavoro svoltando dalla scala dalla vita. Tale mi sperano: morto, ma con infamia. Non sanno che ho fatto di peggio che li ho miniaturizzati nel ricordo. Ma questi di qui sono foglie inezie segni che lavorano in grande non quei congelati in miniatura quei non addetti bocche minime vocianti sotto vetro —e avrebbero ragione se solo sapessero— rattrappite per sempre nella colata fossili nel cemento vivo.

They hope for this: me dead, with infamy. Ma io non so che farci se la strada mi si snoda di sotto come una donna come lei? E dopo tutto ho pozzi in me abbastanza profondi per gettarvi anche questo. Ecco che adesso nevica. And after all I have within me wells deep enough to throw there even this. Ne vanno alteri i gentiluomini nottambuli scesi con me per strada da un quadro visto una volta, perso di vista, rincorso tra altrui reminiscenze o soltanto sognato.

Interno Basta con le botte basta. Le colline si coprono di vento. Questo sarebbe la pace? Interior Enough of the blows enough. The hills are enveloped in wind. You call this peace? Quanto vale il lavoro di una rammendatrice, quanto la tua vita? For every scratch a stitch, for every tear a patch. How much is the work of a needle woman worth, how much your own life?

March, Poeta in nero Nera cintura stivaletti neri nero il cappelluccio a cencio tutto bardato di nero se ne sta ritto sullo sgabello inalbera un cartello con la scritta: Ich bin stolz ein Dichter zu sein muovendo le labbra appena. Vesto il lutto per voi da dietro vetri neri con gli occhi mi risponde.

Tra quanto resta di macerie e tutta questa costruenda roba in vetro cemento acciaio bel posto per riunioni e incontri. But why so much black? I ask him with my eyes. Smettila—dico—se no. It Will Be the Boredom of the long and torrid days but today little Laura is really irritating. Stop it—I say—or else. And with repressed ferocity slightly twist her tiny arm. I see. I tempi da quanto tempo stanno dandoci torto? La spianata. Saltati i gradi le divise in cenci ritorna ognuno con un sasso in mano.

How long have the times been proving us wrong? Exterior Seen Again in Dream Never again—shreds of regiments— would we be such equals. The clearing. All rank leveled, the uniforms in rags, each returns with a stone in his hand. Never again would we be such equals. In cresta di collina. A una fame di giorni promette cena un casolare col suo fumo sperso tra due schiarite. Animo—ammicca quel signore della guerra— tu coi tuoi fucilieri non lo vorresti un rinforzo di fuoco?

Saremo a tavola prima che faccia buio.

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Gocce di altra pioggia pungevano la sabbia della platea predesertica. Peace was above. On the crest of the hill. A cottage with its smoke dispersed between two brightenings promises dinner to a days-old hunger. Drops of other rain prick the sand of the pre-desert plain. Up above a little longer one last goodness illuminated things.

Ogni volta che quasi di soppiatto ripasso da Luino sulla piazza del lago schizzato fuori da un negozio corre un tale ad abbracciarmi farfugliando il nome di mia madre. Her moment gone with theirs already? Years back an elder brother of his did the same and like then now suddenly blossomed from a wall of clay back along the line of the dead a hand convulses us. Di sole spoglie estive ma trionfali. Strappalo quel foglio bianco che tieni in mano. Questo era il dato invogliante. Era in principio solo canne polverose e, dalla foce, mare da carboniere.

Nella sere di polvere e sete iii A Holiday Place i A day at various levels, of high tide —or in the one sphere of the blue. Never does the blank or less clean page entice for itself only, and specially here between river and sea. There were no papers or cards to play, true. Empty-handed, from this side the ferryman returned without word of reply.

That was the enticing datum. It was only dusty reeds at the start and, from the mouth, coal-trading sea. Instead that voice returns to tempt me many years a record, it was from over there, the far shore. Ma uno di sinistra di autentica sinistra mi sorprendevo a domandarmi come ci sta come ci vive al mare? Tempo del mondo: la Corea. But how does anybody of the left, the true left I caught myself wondering how can he, how does he live by the sea?

Even if they were not all stronger swimmers and oarsmen than me. World climate: Korea. Still benumbed with war, with that war, only this made me a part of those talking talking and still talking on the wave of liberty. Vorrei, io solo indiziato, vorrei che splendessero come prove—io una tra loro. One in fact comes alight at a late hour the scornful moon intact still inviolate on the black drift, the scurry of waters. The heat will return. Allacciati o disgiunti da anni li vedo passare danzanti nel riverbero e nel vento.

Memory forges desires then is left alone to bleed over these multiple mirrors. But look —voices come back from the estuary—from one hour to another look how colors change: from gray to green, from green to freshest blue. Che fosse in ansie per Angeliche fuggenti o per tornanti Elene? Si potrebbe supporlo. You might just suppose. Pensavo, niente di peggio di una cosa scritta che abbia lo scrivente per eroe, dico lo scrivente come tale, e i fatti suoi le cose sue di scrivente come azione.

Che fosse e sia un passaggio obbligato? Mi darebbe coraggio. Nothing worse, I was thinking, than something written with the writer for hero, I say the writer as such, and his own business, his writing life as action. That it were or may be a necessary step? Would encourage me. Painters would nestle amid branches at one time today disappeared with part of the reeds: the times have folded easels, tossed away brushes, torn canvasses to shreds.

Someone turning out copies of riverside hours, the turbulence and stasis of the sea? Oracolare ironico gentile sento che sta per sparire. Non sapevo, non so niente di queste cose. As in Breughel? With those who cut and sew? It echoes in the depths, in the grayness, the weather now, the no longer tender season. I would like to understand them by instinct, just being among them, living them, and not for diversion: on these terms alone. But —the sea gone gray in an hour, in an hour rediscovers its own youth— say the voices come over in the tail of the storm.

A stone, they explain, is not as simple as it seems. The one branches into its own cathedral. A paradise on earth, the other. Above them both a Himalaya di vite in movimento. Nei giorni di sole di un dicembre. On the reverse of summer. Were it not quite so late. Sospesa ogni ricerca, i nomi si ritirano dietro le cose e dicono no dicono no gli oleandri mossi dal venticello.

Resta dunque con me, qui ti piace, e ascoltami, come sai. Rammenda reti, ritinteggia uno scafo.


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Ogni eccedenza andata altrove. O spenta.

https://migyzipuho.gq All search abandoned, the names withdraw behind things, and say no, they say no, the oleanders stirred by the breeze. So stay with me, you like it here, and heed me, you know how. That man. Can barely name. All excess gone elsewhere. Or exhausted. Di quali torti quali colpe ancora? In the day that shines above the crushed evening its threshold of agony. Or trembling on the track of those dust-covered strides that raise a spring behind them. For what wrongs still what blame? It says Allah is great and at this hour of night in this dead hour I believe it. Valley of the Queens, iv vertical village Fresh from a recent journey to the doubt of a misdirection the vertical village responds: with the speech of hedges raving among brambles and velvets, creakings of doors barely open, rebounding of echoes, mirror gleams, cuckoos.

A risarcire vecchi danni anni di prostrazione il bacio cadde sulla ferita. Presto persino a me fu chiaro che mi si premeva contro un giuda o piuttosto una taide travestita da boschiva rosa. To repay old damages, years of prostration, the kiss fell onto the wound. Soon even to me it was clear that a Judas pressed against me or rather a Thais disguised as a rose of the wood.

Ne prendo nota—sorrise—te lo dico la prossima volta. The Roman summer stood before us with its own most vaporous, most deadly calcination. Requiem Flattened the irony, washed out the courage, the courage done for, gaiety injured. Oh i paramenti della bellezza, gli addobbi della morte. E nel dirlo mi avvedo che a me solo sto parlando. Ma non serve, non serve.

Da solo non ce la faccio a far giustizia di me. Nel dire il mio nome non enumera i miei torti, non mi rinfaccia il passato. Con dolcezza Vittorio, Vittorio mi disarma, arma contro me stesso me. Oh the vestments of beauty, the adornments of death. On my own I cannot bring myself to justice. With tenderness Vittorio, Vittorio it disarms me, is arming me myself against me.

Siamo passati come passano gli anni. We went by as the years go by. Proprio non ha senso se non per certi trapassanti amari quando si stampano per sempre in loro interi pezzi di natura with unswerving aim where it most stings and burns. That comic dialogue descended an alleyway or two downhill towards the sea. It has no sense at all unless for some bitter passersby when entire pieces of nature are stamped in them forever gelandosi nelle pupille. Ma ero io il trapassante, ero io, perplesso non propriamente amaro. Il poggio Quel che di qui si vede —mi sentite? But I was the passerby, it was me, perplexed though not exactly bitter.

The Knoll What there is to see from here —you hear me? Un verde vaporoso. Che altro? Vorrei essere altro. Vorrei essere te. Con infuocate allora ragioni. Allora incorrisposte tu che senza vedermi passi. Avrebbe avuto voce se fossi te anche per me una mia sera a Parma e non accovacciato nella mente un motivo odoroso di polvere e pioggia tra primavera e estate.

Altro dolore. Qualche volta. Che a me un altro di me parli In Parma with A. A vaporous green. What other? Like to be you. With passionate reasons then. At that time unrequited you who pass not seeing me. Even for me my evening in Parma would have had voice were I you and not crouched over in the mind a theme of scented dust and rain between spring and summer. And were it a door in sight of other doors as far as that one walled up down there which sooner or later will open? Other sorrow. In spasms. It happens. The old tramway descended from Marzolara to Parma whistled a long time grazing the Baccanelli greeting you not there uttered the certainty, horror of the end and that great summer sky grew convinced.

To this shadow the horror of that emptiness returns. Hold it dear to you—he says—this green shadow and this ache. Evasive, moving aside he covers it with one of his acacia leaves— invitation to a feast which is prepared for us shifting as a cloud upon the back of the Apennines. Autostrada della Cisa Ten years more, not even that, before my father dies again in me rudely he was lowered down and a bank of fog divided us forever.

Mi ritorna vuota. Allungo un braccio. From tunnel to tunnel, bedazzlement to blindness I extend a hand. I reach out an arm, embrace a shoulder of air. Rimbaud written on a wall Come for an instant the sting of his name the trickling drop from his name inscribed in clear letters on that scorching wall. Then he would despise me the man with soles of wind for having believed it. Sgusciato nella sua casa di sassi di sabbia franante quando il deserto ricomincia a vivere ci rilancia quel nome in un lungo brivido. Illumined at a stroke beside her the city is empurpled, colored topaz, emerald.

But in him essentially this is what it is, and enviably so. Is he any less mysterious for this? I think of certain houses in the country where the quiet is instantaneously disturbed by the rustle of a curtain, by the slamming of a door, and the brief animation that follows quickly turns into something faintly obsessive. Bertolucci is spectator and interpreter at one and the same time of an analogous, barely perceptible event. You want an example? Listen to these very recent, not yet collected, lines: Once I was a narrow lane.

Invaded by grass, easeful and rending silence is my dying, bitter if even from a high bough the cicada takes up once more its own midday song. This will perhaps clarify better for you what I was saying with regard to that mystery of his, somewhat domestic, accessible. As for me, I think of the summer getting ready to come this way: heavy and blinding.

And my poet? He can hardly bear it, I imagine; but bear it he does, as you see. There were units in formation or in transit for various fronts, but most of all people gazed, with apprehension and pity, at the poor furlined overcoats of the Armir. My memory is of many snowstorms and, even more, of the mud and the puddles around a barracks in Pontelungo. Without appearing to, the stay in Bologna prepared us for the disaster to come and, aside from the events that precipitated our posting, there was more than a presentiment in the air to sadden Bologna that springtime.

Ljubliana August The troop train is stopped at a station under a ferocious sun. A convoy of cattle trucks, sealed with lead, is slowly shunted onto the line parallel to ours and comes to a stop between us and the station building. All the more sinister in the dog days of summer, carabinieri in black helmets are escorting it. They are heading for Italy. Nothing other than human eyes. But for us only those staring eyes exist.

But better, better that they take them away. We would end up hating them in turn. Out of self-defense, damn it! I look at the sky and say to myself: Ljubliana. Dubious like its sunny name among the clouds, greenery becoming gray, whiteness becoming ashes. As a boy, hearing its name after Vittorio Veneto, I imagined it like this.

I was forgetting that Ljubljana has belonged to Italy this past year. We wander round the town, buy things, drink enormous mugs of beer. In the street nobody looks at you, everyone avoids you. But the churches, a mix of baroque and rococo, give a foretaste of the Orient. In front of the Military Headquarters are posted, one on each side, two grenadiers armed to the teeth.

A heavy atmosphere, in short, whose causes not one of us wants to go into, though everyone vaguely knows. We look around astonished. All the same, each feels human enough to expect to be looked at as himself, irrespective of the grouping he represents. But here that way back is blocked in all directions. We take a walk round the park of the enemy city. Boys stop their game for a moment as we pass. They exchange a few looks. Then they go back to their play.

We head back towards the station. The city closes itself behind us, in its dubious name. Or are some learning the art of collaboration? Here we are on the troop train. The tracks run a while along avenues on the outskirts of the city. Lieutenant T. My looking, in defeat, with the eyes of the victor. It was a period of initiation into the game of death. To compile the sorrowful, dismayed inventory of new losses, eyes erred here and there, some moistened by a secret instinct—not of disorientation, not of fear— brutally laid bare. With the signal sounding the end of the raid, a voice seemed to linger, more saddened and commiserating than anxious, calling for someone very dear and lost: just a burnt air of sorrow all along the marina, on the gutted houses, the knockedout wharves, on the tangle of cables.

Someone very dear and lost.