My news? Here they are. I came here, as you know, to give peace to these poor nerves; and I work hard at it, closing myself in the thickest inertia. Bada, I do not know how true it is that in our days the nerves fade more than before, in the great variety and too much intensity of sensations: but it is certain that today as before the strain harms to every organism, and then very sure that your old friend needed this rest; so much it seems to him however to be crushed. Yet I do nothing, absolutely nothing; this letter, which comes a little late in response to your courteous ticket, is the first effort after a month of quiet. Yeah, I could not do anything, even if I wanted to. I do not hear anymore; and if, as the philosopher says, nothing can be in the intellect that has not been before in the sense, I can esteem myself finished, and perhaps put it in the forehead, as on the façade of an empty house. What a beautiful thing, after all, you will not hear anything; to be free and clean of every care of the surrounding world; hearing without being moved, seeing without participating, living the life of the mirror, which quietly reflects everything and smiles! But yes, a bit of irony in the back should have it too; by virtue, if anything, of the ingredients that make it opaque. Is not that bit of irony the least ferocious of our revenge? and mankind always saves the image of its creator, would not deserve worse? seeing without participating, living the life of the mirror, which quietly reflects everything and smiles! But yes, a bit of irony in the back should have it too; by virtue, if anything, of the ingredients that make it opaque. Is not that bit of irony the least ferocious of our revenge? and mankind always saves the image of its creator, would not deserve worse? seeing without participating, living the life of the mirror, which quietly reflects everything and smiles! But yes, a bit of irony in the back should have it too; by virtue, if anything, of the ingredients that make it opaque. Is not that bit of irony the least ferocious of our revenge? and mankind always saves the image of its creator, would not deserve worse?
“Love your neighbor as yourself” is ultimately the command of the principal: and he knows well that I do not love myself. Meanwhile, as it is true that this is my neighbor! I have always felt it from the press that made me around, equal to the elbows of four or five neighbors in the throng where we have stuck our bad genius, in a quarter of an hour of silly curiosity. And the world is a crowd, a multitude, a crowd of invisible forces, which work on you everywhere, to take the place you occupy, not to let you occupy the place you want, even if it were an usher. You pull at everything, and with the same art from everyone; whatever the degree, or education, it is always a deaf war of ambushes, of pitfalls, of betrayals. Everyone has it with you: the stronger you are, or the more they believe you, the more they struggle to overthrow you, to pull you down, to give you the cuff. The interests that you have not offended whistle from all the pruneti, come from all the stains; no rascal is more stationed than you by honest men in hunting. If you tried to die! oh, then, praised the sky, a good breath of a thousand breasts, which would spread from your city, like a breath of spring, to all points of the “beautiful Italian kingdom.” Alive, you had not written anything other than birbonate; dead you, they were all maravigile. Did they scavenge you for a donkey? here you become a swan; your last ode was worthy of Pindar. Try to die, and you’ll see; they will make you a first-class funeral, and a whole citizenship “painted with condolence” will make the cortèo stand out, while you, a happy man, you will wobble in your chariot under a mountain of crowns, which no longer had shields against the virgin Tarpeia, as a reward for the Capitol open to the Sabines. As for me, listen: I have already made a will, and written in very clear form: “I do not want to talk, nor funeral marches, nor lies, nor stale, I want to go to my night-time closet, with two friends, if so many will remain , who will take care to ensure that my bones go right to the place assigned, and another dead do not steal my grave. ” With this blessed neighbor, one never knows what can happen. I want to go to my closet at night; with two friends, if so many of them will be left, who will take care to make sure that my bones go right to the place assigned, and another dead do not steal my grave. “With this blessed neighbor, you never know what it can happen. I want to go to my closet at night; with two friends, if so many of them will be left, who will take care to make sure that my bones go right to the place assigned, and another dead do not steal my grave. “With this blessed neighbor, you never know what it can happen.
Black ideas, you will say. But I, if you remember, I’ve always had them. To certain things we must think about it in time, so as not to be caught by the naive. That great devil of the scythe is so capricious! Yeah, woman too; and I do not want to be more corbellated. Errors, I have committed many, far too many, looking for the untraceable. Poor women, after all! Treat yourself, flatter, undermine, love you for vanity: many, if you are rich, feel the need to enter your home; no desire to penetrate your soul. And it is strange contrast; because we men, some more than others, we would all have the curiosity to penetrate their soul, even at the cost of not finding anything. Thus love, renouncing the pleasure of psychological inquiry, is necessarily reduced to a joke, to a gracious mistake sometimes committed by ardor of temperament, more often by imitation madness. Ah, the world is no longer psychics. We do so many things by custom, by habit, by fashion, by not finding again the arcane sense of their principles; for example, going to the countryside, a summer pleasure, which can be bought without tasting it, without understanding it, transforming it according to the use of the city. Where is the flat road, the men carry the bicycle; where is the lake, the sandolino; from all over the use of the city. Where is the flat road, the men carry the bicycle; where is the lake, the sandolino; from all over the use of the city. Where is the flat road, the men carry the bicycle; where is the lake, the sandolino; from all over thelawn-tennis . In the end, it’s better this way; the campaign is all for me. The thick chestnut trees of the forest are mine; mine the elms and the willows, the fràssini and the ontini of the river; mine the borraccina of the frills, whence the silver plumes of thistles rise, shining to a hopes of sun.
This countryside is beautiful, though without character. Salvator Rosa would lose the tormented and robust inspiration, Claudio Lorenese his placid and wide poetic vein. There are no menacing cliffs, not classical openings of distant horizons. So nothing makes you think, everything is vegetating; good thing for me, that I have no more imagination. Where did it go? Surely, I did it too much. The man has his forty pounds of blood and his quattr’once of ideal: if he knows how to make a discreet use, well; if not, goodbye stuff. I do not register a line anymore. My Don Giovannihe is sleeping. Good poem, which wanted to express life seen, connecting it with the invisible feeling! I do not mean it anymore; I turn over the canvas in every direction, and I can not find the vivarium; I see the outline and the line escapes me, the mother idea, which seemed to me already so clear, original and profound. They are a ruin, and ugly, which for the ruins is the worst. There is here, at the end of a field, along the main road, a small house with a door and a roof, but with a broken door and a collapsed roof. One day the rumor that the Madonna had been seen there; and there was no lack of the innocent girl to give faith to the miracle. What do you want? the miracle could not take root, as the nettles took root, in that pile of rubble so unromantic. Poetry, he wanted to be; and here there is no poetry.
So much the better for me. This vegetative life suits me very well. I read little; barely newspapers, and in the newspapers only the telegrams, to keep me in communion of trouble with Europe. Political events are gray, like my spirit, and make me sleep. But what madness, in sleep! I still dream sometimes, seeing the beautiful inglesina. Do you remember the inglesina of my teenage dreams, which used to go back to moonlight in my childhood dreams? There was, in key, the dusty, white, dazzling road, under the lash of the sol of June; the big hatchback with three horses, with the trunks behind and the tall box post; she, the inglesina, next to her father, old snout of parchment, liberally miniato of red between two gray believers, but always half hidden in the shadow, on the other side of the carriage, for convenience of my love perspective; while she, sweet blond creature, could see herself at the door, intended to reciprocate with a compassionate look at my gesture and my cry of supplicant. Dear inglesina of the recurring dream! You depicted the divine ideal, which always runs at a gallop, which goes inexorably, disappearing into the dust of the beaten path.
What an ideal, then! If, with the permission of my father, the inglesina took us by word, and in a carriage, poor to us! – How do you do? -Very well, Sir; We have never been better.-How do you like Italy? -Very much indeed: do you like sandwiches, Sir? -I like them very much.-And roastbeef? -It is delicious, but I should prefer to veal-cutlet. – What horrors!
You have a good tune, observing that I bring my above-mentioned even in the villa, and comparing (this is then brand new) to the sad knight of Horace, who dragged on the back the most annoying of the ladies. But I can not make myself different from what I am: I already do a lot to write to you, and you should be grateful for a sacrifice that no one else gets from me. Besides, just tease me; while I, in order not to unlearn completely the old art of Cadmo, I continue to write well or badly, making a kind of newspaper for you; the newspaper of Corsenna, nothing less! This village has never dreamed of such great honor in the happiest of its nights. The newspaper will remain unpublished, too much: but the Corsennati will have patience; they will have it more willingly, since, if the newspaper were printed, they would certainly not take the trouble to read it. They are a wise people, the Corsennati, of an ancient and sincere Italic stock.
Let’s start anyway. Background article: I found a nice walk really worthy of us. Follow me, making you courage, however, because you have to pass over a pan, or rather two, juxtaposed by their heads touches and does not touch the axis of a foot, which would like a bridge stack. I see you ugly, that poor pile, at the first fall of autumn; and I see ugly alike the two disconnected planks, with that trunk of pine that acts as a railing, poorly secured and worse secured on four badly nailed poles, for the use of passengers suffering from vertigo. Yeah, the most we do not trust, and pass below. For your rule, the river is thin indeed no, so thin that it is worth to see it, lying in that huge bed. Puddles and puddles do not miss him, but they already throw to the green: he has us from one side or from the other. another few fossils sleeping under the protruding branch of the ash trees, and some puddles huddled under the shelter of a large, wrinkled boulder; while a stream of living water runs glittering and whispering among the pebbles, to connect and nourish all those Nianza and Tanganyika, of which the largest is not two meters wide.
Beyond the shore, which can be seen here and there mottled and brightened by large baskets of rudders, by candelabras, leaves, of a barking rate, of ass’s lips, of dandelions, of mouse ears and of Venus’s shoes, he spreads a blackening row of eternities. A little ‘thin, the natives and not high, because the owners of here do not let the cutting plants grow old, eager to make money, that the devil take them! Behind the poor row of tribes, runs a country path, skirting the shore; Beyond the path, in front of me and my wooden bridge, a double row of poplars is extended towards the mountain, spectacular for the height of the peaks and also for the thickness of the trunks. Ah, heaven be praised; it is understood here that the master of those poplars is a lord for real, or at least he does not have water to the throat,
What will this plant of poplars ever be? They are a hundred on each side, and the wide avenue that stretches in the middle should lead to a castle, a palace, a noble building, in short. Search for, the building is not there; not even the ruins. Better this way; the ruins would have no character; an edifice standing, inhabited and guarded, would force me to go wide, not to annoy or not receive from its owners. That great boulevard, his goodness, leads you to a vast prairie, to a basin, to an amphitheater of vegetables, more noble than any building. How beautiful! and what peace, fulfillment of beauty! The sweet plane, slightly hollow, is all a carpet of soft green, which turns bright yellow tones to the smile of the sun; streaked at the whim of the white rappes of the plantations flickering in the breeze on their elegant stems, or from the red bell-shaped goblets of the late-aged rosolacci; broken at wide intervals, or inflamed on the flaps, from baskets of sermollino, from tufts of règamo, from mentor bushes. At the end of the prairie, which rises gradually like the lip of a malachite cup, a hedge of carpinelle rises and spreads, beyond which the coast of the hill rises, full of chestnut trees up to its ridge, whence a pointed bell tower and the roof of the church of Santa Giustina.
I do not know the saint, and I have not yet seen the sanctuary. It is the first time that I decide to pass the river, and that the bell tower invites me. They say the lightning has already visited it twice. Of course, the lightning is more willing mountaineer than me; and even more cheerful. The poet noted it in the unforgettable stanza:
The kind earthquake
With his lovable motorbike He was
driving the cities;
And the lightning bolt
That does not leave a living man
Skipped here and there.
Let’s move forward. Between the hedge of the carpinelle and the slopes of the mountain, clung to the sides by the natural edge of the ground and by that of an artificial rise all dressed in green clods, runs a deep, limpid and crystalline water. Ah, I finally understand why the river is thirsty. They made him a peach a lot higher, and the water came from one side, by his channel, murmuring his greeting to the ferns and the capelveneri, cheta cheta immollando the ground without corroding. How many herbs live there, in that grace of God, sucking it with thousands and thousands of roots! how many flowers hang on it, as if they wanted to hatch it with their eyes in love! Fiorellini, fiorellini, will I dare to say your names, in the barbarous learned language that you do not know? I do not know the language of the country, and I have no time to waste, rather wanting to admire you. Your name is beauty; and this in all the languages of the world. One of them is white with milk, and its tiny corolla, made of four spread petals, still weighs heavily on the long filiform thread. It must be sugary, its cup, because the insects too willingly immerse their snouts in there. Another has the largest stem, at least as much as a string of three threads of refe; and he wears a bulging tube at the base, narrower at the neck, from which four elegant lacinias rise upwards, through which one glimpses a circle of golden grumolets, suspended on soft silver stamens, like pearls. or gems on the tips of a crown. Who is the treasure destined for? What a tiny genius, of the sons of Oberone and Titania, will you encircle the graceful diadem kept in that sapphire urn? We do not investigate, we do not make almanacs. We vegetate, both the password for me, as to Pertinace his “Militemus “as his” Laboremus “to Settimio Severo.
“Here I brake the course,” as David says in the first scene of Saul; here I sit and I stay a couple of hours at the rezzo, contemplating the flies that fly in the gloomy air, not holding back the thoughts that pass freely for the soul, without leaving a trace. It is in this shady recess a stillness, a warm calm, crossed from time to time by sooty breaths of freshness, so you have all the sensations of supreme well-being. I do not know how it is that a billion and a half of creatures, between reasoning and unreasoning, scattered on the face of the earth, have not yet heard it. I understand that for many it is a matter of living, and urgent needs do not give comfort to think: I still understand that the supreme happiness of inert ecstasy requires a high degree of intellectual perfection. But all those who have achieved it, that degree, why are needs multiplied without reason? Why do they go around looking for ailments with a little light? why stick their hands in Pandora’s box, rummaging in the bottom, if by chance there was still a nuisance? In any case, I will not take the one to go up to Santa Giustina. You are here so well, half resting and half sitting on the shoulder of the embankment! They pass in pairs the butterflies, pierids and golden vanesses, chasing each other between the plants, appearing and disparendo without posing, happy to get excited and live; they are dazzling in the air, almost shaving the water, the bridesmaids and the lighthouses from the diaphanous iridescent wings, from the thin bodies, all in metallic colors, to go to hover a stretch on the flowered rappe, whence dart and sparkle without rest,
And where do I leave the birds? There are all sorts of species, waiting for their deeds without caring about me; cincie, robins, goldfinches, wrens; squealing, screaming, zirling in the bush, which is a pleasure to hear them. There is no lack of clues. Over there, from the elms of the grand boulevard, you hear a chough that I do not want anything in blood.
-It’s the rosignuolo, -sa says a farmer who passes and who gave me the good morning.
“The rosignole, that?” I exclaim. “I would have said a crow, rather, or a magpie, his relative.
“No sir, it’s just the rosignuolo. From the middle of June onwards, he sings like that. It’s in the nest.
-In the family, is not it?
“Oh yes, as Your Worship wants. The house of the rosignuolo is its nest, and the rosignuola is his wife.-
I understand, and I’m all confused. So is this the story? Paired and happy, the rosignuolo does not sing as well as it did when it was done to love; on the contrary, he no longer sings at all, he gives out a hoarse cry of an alert and grumpy animal. Ah, son of a … rosignuolo too! After the sweet pains of desire, the fiaccona of possession; and farewell to the twenty-four different arias, not taking into consideration the variations, the passages, the revitalization which in your song has noted with German diligence the Bechstein. But are rosignoles, therefore, men? men too? Ah, sad thing!