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Es war einmal… Noventa - Fortini

There are cruel games. Sometimes unnecessary, sometimes not. There are calls in class to count these, there are anthologies. Leafing through the now antiquated anthology Garzanti Gell-Lagorio next to the striking exception of Gozzano (for years noted on the first page that contains the list of names, including Saba and Govoni) I think I see now also the lack of Giacomo Noventa. Then I realized it was me who had drawn a line in pencil on his behalf. Now the gate. A justification for the time: I may not believe un poeta italiano. Ma quando leggo Fortini che lo traduce, capisco che il mio "canone" s'è perso un altro pezzo importante. Noventa all'appello che feci molti anni fa era assente, oggi lo riapprezzo grazie ad una serie di letture convergenti tra cui oggi segnalo il rencente saggio di Valentino Cecchetti che, dopo Adriano Olivetti, Giacomo Noventa e il socialismo magico (Bibliotheca), torna nuovamente ad occuparsi di Noventa con Una polemica sul frontespizio. Noventa e Giuseppe De Luca antimoderni, pubblicato quest'anno per l'editore Nuova Cultura. Per lo stessso editore ha pubblicato Tre studi sulla recezione di Péguy in Italia negli anni Trenta e una recente introduzione agli studi culturali . (Nuova Cultura) che piacerebbe leggere Wed. Cecchetti è anche autore Tues Cento Romanzi (Fazi) e Roberto Calasso (Cadmo). Ora il testo

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Once upon a time ... di Giacomo Noventa

There once was a poet,
Its name honors not:
by humans and by poets
names do not show the value.

After the victory he was called to
King of the German countryside.
the war he was appointed
praise in some band.

"King," now said the poet,
protect "God your victory. Every German
be your poet,
I remembered my friend in the war.

He was born in the village.
matter where I was born.
And he died for you,
Let me weep for him! "

The king can not cry,
(do not know the Kaiser emergency)
" Today's crying in Germany, The
meet tomorrow to death! "

died So once a poet,
honors Whom no:
of kings and poets
Displays the value of this fairy tale.

Once Upon a Time un poeta (di F. Fortini trad)

C'era once a poet,
That did not honor his name;
but neither men nor the names of poets
tell the truth.

When he won the war
the king of the Germans called it
and in several volumes that his war
commanded him to sing.

"Sire, God save thee the victory,
(so said the poet)
every German singing your glory in war ... I
a friend died.

The country was born
saw me even born. Let me therefore
mourn, now that
die for you. "

The king does not want to cry
(that need, who reigns not know):
"Anyone in Germany today cries
die tomorrow. "

So when a poet is dead.
That did not honor his name, but says
of kings and poets
this tale the truth.

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Recensire un editoriale tv. prosa lirica

Political prisoners outside parliament. It seems reasonable, not anarchy. It will also be a bit 'a sudden say fuck that brings us a little' in terms of "Elio e le Storie Tese" or Masini, according to taste ... However, though unhappy with, involuntary grotesque flattery of power, guiltily confuse terrorism with what happens now, reshuffle the cards on the table with fake historical sense, and do all this from the public service as a service opinion, is really creepy ... Look here . The short-sighted human superficiality, the superficial, to be fascinated by the repetition of an unhappy "trigger" ... deadly sins of intelligence. And then, the appeal to the sense of responsibility of care, "let us not make victims of fanaticism ... And then, rather then picking up the degree of pathos , last trickle of gabrieldannunziano, evidence of aesthetic truth. How to tell you the dead eh? No hits that, I wanted politicians condemned outside parliament. It seems like anarchy but to the law.

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Periferia Pavese International suicide

Quest 'summer in Spain I bought a number of "Camp de L'arpa" in November 1979 dedicated to Cesare Pavese. Articles by G. Mario Golodoff, JE Ayala-Dip, Robert Saladrigas , Macel Choen etc ... flipping the pages, I thought of what he wrote in his Wislawa Szymborska optional reading: "Europe is a small continent, divided into small states, for more. We can say that with every step you encounter a boundary. This is now the specificity of our Europe, this is its unique beauty ... "And besides
then ... Chinese and Hindi together make 1,100 million speakers. The most common Western languages, English and English, along even 700. L’ Arabo lo parlano 220 milioni, il Bengali, 190 milioni; il Portoghese, circa 180 milioni, Francese, 180 milioni, Russo, 170 milioni, Giapponese, 127, Tedesco, 100, Coreano, 78, Vietnamita, e Italiano 70 milioni, Polacco, quasi 50 milioni.
Sento spesso dire in giro che l’Italia è un paese minore. “Minore, minore… minore per forza” dico io. Le stime pubblicate da «Veranstaltungsskript von Christian Lehmann» e da «Ethnologue» nel 2005 parlano chiaro. Demograficamente parlando la struttura dell’immaginario dovrebbe conformarsi nel futuro secondo tutt’altri canoni rispetto a quelli cui siamo abituati. Le masse spaventano la reazione,: bisogna consolidare il canone; but then perceiving that the usual form of replication is the farce, all too happy to pass Latin, from cheese to skyscrapers. The soft version, the "wonder" and "possession" and then, step by step towards a desirable "negotiation," to refer to three key words of Stephen Greenblatt.
Imagine compare with empirical methods, the literature of the last three countries in the list above, Vietnam, Poland, Italy. A kind of humanist dialogue as a "relic." Three intellectuals who discuss the values \u200b\u200bfor the new millennium and of their history and their countries in recent decades, putting at stake in a personal way, presenting e parlando dal crollo delle ideologie, delle utopie, della rivoluzione francese, dello stato costituzionale, del dialogo interreligioso, dei valori estetici, del Novecento, della morale sessuale, di quello che preferiscono insomma, così, a braccio, magari in forma breve, quasi aforistica… Ne verrebbe fuori un libro se non altro curioso per i tre rispettivi bacini.
E splendido bersaglio per i critici dei rispettivi paesi attratti da un boccone di così facile lettura: è nel contratto dover spiegare ad “altri” che non sanno o in ogni caso e per forza di cose sanno meno. Una bella tentazione per ogni scrittore di quel genere di fiction che è la saggistica. […] Andando più in giù nella lista di «Ethnologue», the lower levels, all languages \u200b\u200bof Africa, the continent also linguistically mangled. I think particularly the Hausa, which has a very interesting literature. But when I find time to read the masterpieces of distant and unknown: who will publish (or has released) and Garzo Muhammadu Abubakar Imam, Abubakar Tafawa Balewa and Zaynab Alkali. Or the poetry of Okot p'Bitek and Sa'adu Zungur? And above all, more importantly, I'll listen? Reflect on what the end Italy will feel "better" than Vietnam and Poland. The bookmaker would all be in favor of world champions, the richest state, but how many times we contract? With regard to the province
Universal, Poland, Spain and my "Camp de L'arpa" carry-over from last Ellipse Imperfecta a poem by Jaroslav Mikolajewski, a poet born in Warsaw in 1960, translated from Polish by Lorenzo Pompeo and Piotrowska Eliza. The title is "Cesare Pavese" and of course the writer is born in early September ninety-nine years ago in Santo Stefano Belbo. No gossip, said the last time. And for another year go well.

Cesare Pavese "

Hill, vines and thick dust of the road
that increasingly tough dissolves in the mist of the morning.
A man with the glasses down on the edge
dead and lives under a recollection
the landscape hidden behind the damp clouds. Raise your head
only when the buds that dry tickle the nape
are warm and the sun has swept away the fog from the road and hills.
Everything has remained the same, only the light is different
remember a boy of the same land
watching animals and people on the fields.

breathing the scent of smoldering leaves
man walking towards the city behind the hill. Those around which passes
not get distracted by work, do not look
from the road. Even if women do
the sky and discover the hips in the sun, like clusters of grapes
absorb the afternoon.

when in the suburbs
feel underfoot the hard asphalt,
man thinks of himself as a sea, which does not generate anything,
where the future is already dead and buried.

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I premi: polemiche bilanci. Le scarpe gialle Fruttero of Claudel and

time poisons and prizes, and chronicles of indignation, to disturbance. Viareggio and Campiello. In the first case, the poet and journalist Mario Baudino quintet proposes to reverse the choice by the jury suggesting Fruttero, Zaccuri, Bugnara (agree, but I suggest a disproportion between the former two seconds). In the second case one has only to read the correspondence online Viareggio prize for understanding the climate in which to play everything. Berardinelli resigns Ficara e Rasy sono tra i dieci firmatari della lettera di protesta indirizzata al sindaco. Franco Loi con le sue Voci di osteria (Mondadori) se l'era gia battuta dichiarando di non voler parteciare alla gara, i tre aspiranti vincitori per l'opera prima Simona Baldanzi (1977) Paolo Colagrande (1960) (già vincitore del "Campiello opera prima") e Paolo Fallai (1959) sono in inbarazzo per essere venuti fino alla serata per niente. Finita la stagione, un bilancio, pensando anche allo Strega . La vittoria di Amanniti mi pare abbia rivelato e consacrato un salto nel campo dei valori economici ed estetici (la breccia, però era di Veronesi), poi salta agli occhi il successo di una scrittrice di forza e maniera, Milena Agus (seconda anche al Campiello) una macina-tam-tam-"libro da niente"- che fa la gioia di Nottetempo e assicura qualche futuro. I giorni innocenti della guerra di Mario Fortunato è interessante per ragioni che ora non dico ma che hanno a che fare con la "postcolonialità" di Saviano, incautamente introdotta e che attiene anche la Vestaglia Blu di Simona Baldanzi. Ma di ciò diremo. Preferisco tacere invece di Le stagioni dell'acqua di Laura Bosio e de Il profumo Snow Franco Matteucci in competition and the winner of the Strega Mariolina Campiello Venice ( thousand years I'm here "Einaudi) which should have been torn by Romuald Bugaro of the labyrinth of passions lost (Rizzoli) and by Alessandro Zaccuri with Mr. son (Mondadori). Coming to poetry, I think I prefer Michele Mari and his "Ladyhawk" to "marble" of Silvia Bre and also in the essays I dissociate myself from votes and inclined strongly in favor of the visual text of Agamben small publishing Marinotti rather than the usual catch-all-Einaudi. Turning finally to
suffered so much Viareggio, Philip Tuena won the day on perhaps more famous (and I always sympathetic) Ermanno Cavazzoni. The novel Tuena but I know I have not read his poems. Sull'intelligentissimo site and meritorious " Nonleggere " you can listen while you read. I invite you to note the name of the publisher that publishes Four Nocturnes (The series "The hesitation" by Joseph Aletti ) and note the usual disproportion between two languages, one that is on the market, and one not. Then I am surprised to see that so much of the writing that sells so much is done by people who, immediately, at first sight, have practiced for isitnto that writing that sell well at all. Examples abound, from the years of Pirandello than of Baudino, and Paola Fois Mastrocola, to name the first three names that come to mind. What did it say in the Cross of writing poetry after twenty years? If he was right to say it loud and clear.

I think back then the other night in Vespa intrvisto quibble of yellow shoes with the moral winner of the Campiello. Ironically on the footwear. He's fine, it Sutor ultra crepidam , but I can think of a little-known anecdote about Dino Buzzati. Surprised as he looked at a color photograph of Paul Claudel , the French diplomat and poet and playwright, against which the fat Claudel Celine aveva (a ragione) schiumato la sua bile, si era sciaguratamente fatto ritrarre con un ginocchio a terra, sul viale di un giardino, nell’atto di cogliere un fiore da un cespuglio. Buzzati, uomo di attenta eleganza, commentò: “Però ha le scarpe gialle”. L’occhio dell'interlocutore corre alle sue, di scarpe; anche l'arguto Rinaldo De Benedetti le aveva gialle. Buzzati cercò di dissipare l’imbarazzo, osservando che Claudel, un poeta, avrebbe dovuto stare più attento. L'imbarazzo delle scarpe, ciclicamente ritorna, come a ricordare che in tutti i giochi c'è sempre qualcuno cui "vogliono fare le scarpe"...

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Even in the South: the young man Saviano and others.

Dalla Sicilia alla città di Basile, Della Porta e Matilde Serao. Sotto l’egida bonaria di Raffaele la Capria e di Enzo Golino (ma esiterà poi, l’egida?), come vanno le cose? Se penso all’abisso che separa l’intransigenza offensiva del “provinciale cuneese” Giorgio Bocca ( Napoli siamo Noi , Mondadori, 2006) mi rendo conto che “l’armonia” è davvero “perduta”, per parafrasare un libro di La Capria uscito nello stesso anno. Eppure, tra le grandi città, Napoli è oggi quella in cui il panorama letterario pare più fiorente. O quello che oggi ha maggior portata di “capitale simbolico”. Troppo facile say that the onset of Saviano (who like numbers far exceeds the number of onset of Brizzi) "pulls up" the whole geographical area, and shifting attention, balances, the following topics: Gomorrah comes to a editorial content and very well prepared ground: that of "deserters" in the homonymous anthology published in 2000 in the series for the Freestyle by Giovanna De Angelis. That includes Anthony Pascale (1966) Joshua Calaciura (1960), Antonio Franchini (1958) Braucci Maurizio (1966), Diego de Silva (1964), David Morandi (1965). Never mind the perhaps too-sponsored Erri de Luca, or Marosi Castaldi and remember instead the polycentric irregular and cultured as Gabriele Frasca (1957) or more "miltanti" as quoted Braucci and lightning and volcanic Lello Voce (1957), leader of a movement of undisputed "democratic poetry" is not just what the " Poetry Slam." Among the narrators of the territory reported at least Peppe Lanzetta (1954) and Giuseppe Montesano (1959). Among the young Piero Sorrentino (1978) and "the big one" that is, the young author of Gomorra , which recently also signed pieces and regular reports for the 'Espresso'. In its issue of August 23
talks about his obsession with the "southern question" and cites Salvemini, Giustino Fortunato and Ernesto Rossi. Southern thinkers who had understood everything. Among politicians Berinotti cites as the only politician who went to Casal di Principe and points with respect to the legalistic Msi Almirante. As if to say: save the radicalism of the base, the thrust that moves to perform the act, accepting the joys (success) and pain (the Commons, and fear) that this entails. For my part I admire Saviano and I think he is the first post-colonial Italian writer. It is not a joke: those who read the article in the interview with Gianluca di Feo can hear it, even in his own way to revive the issue, very important.
Glory, for the ancients, to Hesiod, she was a goddess. But even in Virgil, under the name of fame, beginning to take fearful aspects. A hideous monster that has so many watchful eyes, ears, and how many languages \u200b\u200bhas on the body feathers. Saviano suppose could address the issue and meditate every day. His "different positioning" is not to be found in references to Pamuk, Rushdie, but in fact almost unique in literature written in Italy in recent years, not just an intellectual "protected", in danger for what he said, but also a writer's writing shed. And also why I call it post-colonial Saviano. mutatis mutandis this release was affected also Gavino Ledda, who went to school when it was read to the middle or early high school, the same Saviano's going on, already "adopted" in many schools. Saviano says he is not writing that frees the writer. No. It is the player that frees the writer. The players liberalize destroy the complaint, the conspiracy of silence. I wonder if he also happened after the film and a possible attempt incommunicative and the intransigence of a punctured Aurum Tellus ? I do not think in any event, we'll see. History relaxes and Pirandello had spoken more than once of "pleasure of the story." "Nothing is more calm in history, gentlemen," exclaimed one of his characters. "Everything in life You change continuously under the eyes. Nothing there for sure. While the story is everything determined, everything is established. "And each effect follows obedient to his cause with perfect logic, and each event takes place accurate and consistent in every detail, with the Duke of Nevers, the day that, so this year. etc.. Relaxes less, the story, if anyone's anxiety fartici pass.