Verso cieli più alti o la Ragione dellEssere (Italian Edition)

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  1. TOMMASO CAMPANELLA
  2. TOMMASO CAMPANELLA in: History of Italian Philosophy
  3. Aleksandr Aleksandrovič Blok
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Contact Locus Animae. Streaming and Download help. If you like Locus Animae, you may also like:. Excellent song writing is evident throughout this album, dynamic and diverse. Hope to hear more in the future. Obstacle of Affliction. The Heretics by Rotting Christ.

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TOMMASO CAMPANELLA

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Poi fuggii. Il torrente mi raccontava oscuramente la storia. He loved to gather himself in a song then, while the young hostess, with her red petticoat and lovely cheeks under her hazy37 hairdo, moved back and forth in front of him. Faust was young and handsome. On a day like that day, from the wallpapered room, amid the refrains of the player pianos and the flower decora- tions, from the small room I could hear the crowd rushing by and the dim noises of winter.

I remember!

TOMMASO CAMPANELLA in: History of Italian Philosophy

Back then I would lend my enigma to smooth lithe seamstresses, consecrated by my longing for the supreme love, by the longing of my tormented thirsting youth. Then I fled. I lost myself in the tumult of the colossal cities, I saw the white cathedrals rise as enormous congeries of faith and dreams with their thousand spires in the sky, I saw the Alps rise as greater cathedrals still, and full of the great green shadows of the fir trees, and full of the melody of the streams whose song I could hear being born from the infinity of dreams.

Up there among the hazy fir trees in the mist, among the thousands upon thousands of tickings the thousand voices of silence, as a young light appeared through the tree trunks, through paths of brightness I climbed: I climbed up to the Alps, white delicate mystery in the background.

Lakes, up there among the crags, clear pools watched over by the smile of dreams, the clear pools the ecstatic lakes of obliv- ion40 that you Leonardo created. The stream told me the story dimly. That is why Leonardo is invoked. Una fanciulla nel torrente lavava, lavava e can- tava nelle nevi delle bianche Alpi. Ma quale incubo gravava ancora su tutta la mia giovinezza? O i baci i baci vani della fanciulla che lavava, lavava e cantava nella neve delle bianche Alpi!

And poor, naked, happy to be poor and naked,41 to reflect for an instant the landscape as an enchanting horrid memory, deep in my heart I climbed: and I arrived, I arrived where the snows of the Alps were blocking my way. A young girl was washing in the stream, she washed and sang in the snows of the white Alps. She turned, welcomed me, in the night she loved me. And still in the background the Alps the white delicate mystery, the purity of the stellar lamp lit in my memory, the light of the night of love began to shine.

But what nightmare42 still weighed on all my youth? Oh the kisses the vain kisses of the young girl who washed, who washed and sang in the snow of the white Alps! I heard the still-distant stream again: it flowed roaring through ancient desolate cities, along silent roads, deserted as if they had just been pillaged. A golden warmth present in the shadow of the room, bountiful locks, a rattling reclining body in the mystic night of the ancient human animal. The maiden slept oblivious in her dark dreams: something like a byzantine icon, like an arabesque myth whitened the uncertain pallor of the curtain in the background.

Here Campana proclaims, with uncharac- teristic elation, his condition as outcast, in opposition to traditional values. In faccia a me una matrona selvaggia mi fissava senza batter ciglio.

Aleksandr Aleksandrovič Blok

La luce era scarsa sul terreno nudo nel fremere delle chitarre. And then figures of a very ancient free life,43 of enormous solar myths, of massacres of orgies took shape before my spirit. Opposite me a savage matron stared at me without batting an eyelid. The light was feeble on the bare ground in the quivering of guitars. To one side the old woman now clung like a spider on the blossoming treasure of a young girl in dream while she seemed to whisper in her ears words I could not hear, sweet as the wordless wind of the submerging Pampas.

The savage matron had seized me: my warm blood46 was certainly being drunk by the earth: now the light was more feeble on the bare ground in the metallic breath of the guitars. Suddenly the freed young girl exhaled her youth, languid in her savage grace, her eyes sweet and piercing as a whirlpool. Grace began to languish on the shoulders of the beautiful savage in the shadows of the flowing hair and the august mane of the tree of life47 wove itself onto the bare ground while in the pause the guitars invited a distant sleep.

From the Pampas one could clearly hear the leaping the pawing of wild horses, one could clearly hear the wind rise, the pawing seemed to fade away muted into infinity. In the frame of the open door the stars glimmered red and warm in the distance: the shadow of the savages in the shadow. There are now four figures: Campana, the matron, the maiden and an old woman skeletal form. The spilling of blood in Orphic Songs is the concrete manifestation of unendurable personal anguish cf. Esse guardavano la fiamma e cantavano canzoni di cuori in catene.

Tutti i preludii erano taciuti oramai. Le porte moresche si cari- cavano e si attorcevano di mostruosi portenti neri nel mentre sullo sfondo il cupo azzurro si insenava di stelle. Solitaria troneg- giava ora la notte accesa in tutto il suo brulicame di stelle e di fiamme. Avanti come una mostruosa ferita profondava una via. Ella aveva la pura linea imperiale del profilo e del collo vestita di splendore opalino. Voices and voices and songs of children and of lust rose through the winding alleyways inside the burning shadow,48 to the hill to the hill.

In the shadow of the green streetlamps the white colossal prostitutes were dreaming vague dreams in the light grown bizarre in the wind. They were looking at the flame and singing songs hearts in chain. All the preludes had fallen silent by now. The night, the quietest joy of the night had descended. The moorish doors49 filled and writhed with monstrous black portents while in the background the dark blue deepened with stars. Solitary now the night sat enthroned burning with all its teeming stars and flames. Ahead a street plunged downward like a monstrous wound.

Beside the doorjambs white caryatids of an artificial sky50 were dreaming, their faces resting on their palms. With a rapid gesture of imperial youthfulness she drew her light dress on her shoulders as she moved and her window glim- mered in expectation until the shutters closed softly on a double shadow. The architectural elements, deformed by the shadow, become fantastic creations.

Nella stanza ove le schiuse sue forme dai velarii della luce io cinsi, un alito tardato: e nel crepuscolo la mia pristina lam- pada instella il mio cuor vago di ricordi ancora. O il tuo corpo! In the room where I embraced her form unfolding from the veils of light, a lingering breath: and in the twilight my pristine lamp casts starlight on my heart still longing for memo- ries. Faces, faces whose eyes smiled on the edge of dreams, you young charioteers through the airy paths of the dream I garlanded with fervor: o frail verses, o garlands of nocturnal loves. From the garden a song breaks into a faint chain of sobs: the vein55 is open: arid red and sweet is the skeletal56 landscape of the world.

Oh your body! O non accen- derle! Non attristarti o Sole! Aprimmo la finestra al cielo notturno. Non era dunque il mondo abitato da dolci spettri e nella notte non era il sogno ridesto nelle potenze sue tutte trionfale? A quale sogno levammo la nostalgia della nostra beIlezza?

La luna sorgeva nella sua vecchia vestaglia dietro la chiesa bizantina. Your body an airy gift on my knees, and the stars absent, and not one God in the violet evening of love: but you lowering your violet eyes, you who had stolen a melody of caresses from an unknown nocturnal sky. My limbs breathed happily, they inhaled their beauty, they breathed to a clearer light in the divine reflections of your gentle cloud.

Like a white cloud, like a white cloud close to my heart, oh stay oh stay oh stay! Do not be saddened o Sun! Men like ghosts wandering: they wandered like ghosts: and the city the streets the churches the squares was composing itself into a cadenced dream, as if through an invisible melody sprung from that wandering. What bridge, we asked silently, what bridge have we thrown across the infinite, so that everything seems a shadow of eternity to us? To what dream did we raise our longing for beauty? The moon was rising in its old robe behind the byzantine church. In the warmth of the red light, within the closed halls61 where the light sinks evenly within the mirrors to infinity, white flashes of lace blossom and die.

The doorkeeper in the cast-off splendor of a green jerkin, the wrinkles on her face softer, her eyes in the bright- ness veiling the blackness, watches the silver door. One can feel the vague fascination of love. A mature woman rules, softened by a life of love with a smile a vague glimmer in her eyes the memory of tears of wantonness. Light shuttles weaving multicolored fantasies, they go by62 in the vigil bringing messages of love, they wander, luminous dust that rests in the enigma of the mirrors.

The door- keeper watches the silver door. Outside is the night wreathed with silent songs, pale love of wanderers. She was queen of memory in The Night, sec.


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The Chimera is identified with poetry throughout Orphic Songs. XI, 1—6. On the arid hillsides Harsh reddened in the waning sun Clashing with raucous noises The distant life cries out: It cries out to the dying sun That bloodies flower beds. One hears a piercing fanfare72 Rising: the river disappears Into the golden sands: in the silence The white statues at the head of bridges Stand upturned and already things no longer are.

And from the deep silence a tender And majestic chorus Rises and surges up toward my balcony: And in laurel scent, In sharp languishing laurel scent, Among the immortal statues in the sunset She74 appears to me, now present. The hours wane: with the vanished dream76 wanes the pale Fate. For the love of poets, gates of death open Onto infinity! For the love of poets Princess my dream vanished Into the whirlpools of Fate! But who has on the terrace on the river a lamp is lighted who has Who is it who is it that has lighted the lamp to the little Madonna of the Bridge? See The Night, sec.

Sorgenti sorgenti abbiam da ascoltare, Sorgenti, sorgenti che sanno Sorgenti che sanno che spiriti stanno Che spiriti stanno a ascoltare. Springs springs we must listen to, Springs, springs that know Springs that know that spirits go That spirits go by and listen. Listen the twilight is waning And for unquiet spirits darkness is sweet: Listen: you have been vanquished by Fate: But for the light hearts another life is at the gate: There is no sweetness that can equal Death More More More Hear the one who still cradles you: Hear the sweet girl81 who Says in your ear: More More And now the wind rises and eases: now it returns from the sea And now we feel the heave Of the heart that loved us more!

Your admirable lady has departed from this century. Then it seemed to me that my heart. Here those who try to disguise their true nature are called Ophelia cf. E cammino poveretto Nella notte fantasiosa, Pur mi sento nella bocca La saliva disgustosa. There are some who grope their way Down mysterious flights of stairs: And behind the shiny windows Stand the gossips with their chatter. And poor wretch I keep on walking In the whimsy of the night, Still I feel inside my mouth The disgust of my saliva. Away from the stench From the stench and through the streets And I walk and keep on walking Where the houses get more scarce.

Tre ragazze e un ciuco per la strada mulattiera che scendono. I complimenti vivaci degli stradini che riparano la via. Il ciuco che si voltola in terra. Le risa. Le imprecazioni montanine. Le roccie e il fiume. Castagno, 17 Settembre 2. Vedo solo canali roc- ciosi che le venano i fianchi e si perdono nel cielo di nebbie che le onde alterne del sole non riescono a diradare.

Davanti alla fonte hanno stazionato a lungo i Castagnini attendendo il sole, aduggiati da una notte di pioggia nelle loro stamberghe allagate. Il torrente gonfio nel suo rumore cupo commenta tutta questa miseria. Nel presbiterio trovo una lapide ad Andrea del Castagno. Three girls and a donkey coming down the mule track.

The lively compliments of the workers repairing the road. The donkey rolling on the ground. The laughter. Mountain profanities. The rocks and the river. Castagno, September 17 2. The Falterona2 is still enveloped by fog. I see only rocky trenches that vein its sides and disappear into the sky of fog that the alter- nating waves of the sun are unable to disperse. The rain has deep- ened the grey of the mountains. In front of the fountain the people of Castagno have stopped for a long time waiting for the sun, dis- tressed by a night of rain in their flooded hovels.

A girl in slippers walks by saying meekly: one day the floodtide will carry us all away.

In its dark noise the swollen stream comments on all this dreariness. I look oppressed at the steep rocks of the Falterona: I will have to climb, climb. In the presbytery I find a memorial tablet to Andrea del Castagno. Francis of Assisi. Io sentivo le stelle sorgere e collocarsi luminose su quel mistero. Il canto fu breve: una pausa, un commento improvviso e misterioso e la mon- tagna riprese il suo sogno catastrofico.

Il canto breve: le tre fanciulle avevano espresso disperatamente nella cadenza millenaria la loro pena breve ed oscura e si erano taciute nella notte! Tutte le finestre nella valle erano accese. Ero solo. Le nebbie sono scomparse: esco. Mi rallegra il buon odore casa- lingo di spigo e di lavanda dei paesetti toscani. La chiesa ha un portico a colonnette quadrate di sasso intero, nudo ed elegante, semplice e austero, veramente toscano.

Tra i cipressi scorgo altri portici. Su una costa una croce apre le braccia ai vastissimi fianchi della Falterona, spoglia di macchie, che scopre la sua costruttura sassosa. Con una fiamma pallida e fulva bruciano le erbe del camposanto. How enchanted had the stars risen for me in the sky from the distant backdrop of the soft recesses into which the barbarous valley5 faded, from where came the restless stream dark in its depths!

I felt the stars rise and settle brightly on that mystery. And, while time fled vainly for me,7 a song, the long waves of a threefold chorus8 bounding up the cliff, held back at the golden edges of the night by the echo that in the stony bosom recast them lengthened, lost. The song was brief: a pause, a sudden mysterious comment and the mountain went back to its catastrophic9 dream. The brief song: the three young girls had desperately expressed their brief dark pain in the millennial cadence and had fallen silent in the night! All the windows in the valley were lighted.

I was alone. The fog has lifted: I go out. The good homey smell of lavender and spike of the small Tuscan towns cheers me up. The church has a portico of small square columns made of whole stones, bare and elegant, simple and austere, truly Tuscan. Among the cypress trees I notice other porticos.

On a mountainside a cross opens its arms to the vast flanks of the Falterona free from the undergrowth, that reveals its stony structure. The grasses of the cemetery burn with a pale tawny flame. The Falterona green black and silver: the solemn sadness of the Falterona that swells like an enormous petrified billow,11 that leaves behind a cavalry of white horses, cracks and cracks and cracks in the rock as far as the sandy swirls of hills down there on the plain of Tuscany: Castagno, small stone houses scattered half- way up the mountainside, windows I have seen lighted: so for the creatures of the cubist landscape,12 in a barely golden light of internal eyes amid thin vegetable hair the rectangle of the head in a mysteriously fine line with fine features the smile of blond Ceres13 shines through: the clear grey eyes limpid under the line of the black eyebrows: the soft line of the lips, the serenity of the eyebrows memory of the Tuscan poetry that once was.

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The play on words generates cavalleria, cavalry. The addition of white horses, which also has the same double meaning in English, allows the wordplay to be retained. La sera scende dalla cresta alpina e si accoglie nel seno verde degli abeti. Io per il viale dei tigli andavo intanto difeso dagli incanti mentre tu sorgevi e sparivi dolce amica luna, solitario e fumigante vapore sui barbari recessi.

Stia, 20 Settembre 5. The four-sided houses in living stone built by the Lorenas16 remain empty and the avenue of lime trees lends a romantic air to the solitude where the powerful of the earth have erected their dwellings. Evening descends from the alpine ridge and gathers in the green bosom of the fir trees. From the avenue of the lime trees I watched a solitary star light up on the alpine spur and the very ancient forest cluster the shadows and the deep rustling of silence. From the sharp ridge in the sky, above the drowsy mystery of the forest, walking along the avenue of the lime trees I spotted my old friend the moon rising in a new robe reddened by a coppery haze: and I greeted the old friend again without surprise as if the savage depths of the spur were waiting for it to emerge from the unknown landscape.

Meanwhile I walked down the avenue of the lime trees protected from enchantments while you were rising my sweet friend moon, solitary misty vapor over the barbarous recesses. And I no longer watched your strange face, but for a long time I kept on walking down the avenue, if ever I could hear your red dawn in the sigh of the nocturnal life of the forest. Stia,17 September 20 5. In the hotel an old Milanese gentleman talks of his distant loves to a lady with white hair and a childlike face. Calmly she explains the vagaries of the heart to him: he is still astonished and flustered: here in the ancient town enclosed by the woods.

Ho sostato nelle case di Campigna. Io vidi dalle solitudini mistiche staccarsi una tortora e volare distesa verso le valli immensamente aperte. Il paesag- gio cristiano segnato di croci inclinate dal vento ne fu vivifi- cato misteriosamente. Outside all is quiet: the fra- ternal conversation of the gentleman22 continues: Comme deux ennemis rompus Que leur haine ne soutient plus Et qui laissent tomber leurs armes!

September 21 near La Verna 6. From the mystical solitudes23 I saw a turtle dove break away and glide toward the immensely open valleys. The Christian landscape marked with crosses bent by the wind was mysteriously vivified by it. V, — This Casentino is seen by Campana as a mythical land, where ancient Tuscan poetry is still alive, and which holds the promise of both spiritual and artistic salvation for the poet. The Night, secs. Addio colomba, addio!

Sudato mi offersero acqua. O divino santo Francesco pregate per me pecca- trice. Farewell dove, farewell! Enchantingly Christian was the hospitality of the farmers around there. As I was sweating, they offered me water. On the endless stubbles, higher and higher rose the natural towers of rock holding the little con- ventual house that glimmered with streams of light in the win- dowpanes at sunset.

The fortress of the spirit24 rose, the enormous rocks cast in stacks by a violent law toward the sky, pacified by primal nature that had covered them with green forests, then purified by an infi- nite spirit of love the goal26 which had pacified the clashes of the ideal that had caused such agony,27 to which the pure supreme emotions of my life were sacred. September 22 The Verna 7. August 20 I remembered the victorious eyes, the line of the eyebrows: maybe she had never known: and now I found her again at the end of my pilgrimage breaking into 24The fortress of the spirit: St.

Caprese, Michelangiolo, colei che tu piegasti sulle sue ginocchia stanche di cammino, che piega che piega e non posa, nella sua posa arcana come le antiche sorelle, le barbare regine antiche sbattute nel turbine del canto di Dante, regina barbara sotto il peso di tutto il sogno umano. Il corridoio, alitato dal gelo degli antri, si veste tutto della leggenda Francescana. Halfway, before the simple figures of love, her heart had opened to a cry to a tear of passion, so destiny was consummated! Deep caves, rocky cleavages where stone steps sink into a shadow without memory, steep colossal bas-reliefs of columns in the living rock: and in the church30 the angel, sweet purity that divides the lily and the elect Virgin, and a cirrus glows blue in the sky and a classical amphora encloses the earth and the lilies: that appears in the precise angle where dreams appear, and in the white cloud of his beauty as he rests his knee on the ground for an instant, up there so close to the sky: solitary paths among the tall colonnades of trees happy with a light streak of sunlight until I arrived where a divine nocturnal softness appeared to me in the morning before the veiled vastness of the landscape, the green all veiled with brightness, fading and shading off to infinity, and full of the powers of its looming nocturnal ranges.

The corridor,33 stirred by the icy breath of the caves, is all decorated with the Franciscan legend. His denial is simple and sweet: 29Via Crucis: frescoes depicting the life of St. Francis painted by Fra Emanuele di Como Un caro santo italiano. Ora hanno rivestito la sua cappella scavata nella viva roccia. Acqui- stano allora quei sommarii disegni un fascino bizzarro e nostalgico.

Strie minacciose di ferro si gravano sui monti prospicenti lontane. Lontano si vedono lentamente sommergersi le vedette mistiche e guerriere dei castelli del Casentino. Seggo sul muricciolo. Figure vagano, facelle vagano e si spengono: i frati si congedano dai pellegrini. A dear Italian saint. Now they have renovated his chapel34 carved out of living rock. A walnut paneling runs all around, where with powerful melancholy a monk.

The bizarre simplicity of the white design stands out when the gold of the sunset tries to pour into the dim light of the chapel from the nearby grating. Then those summary designs take on a bizarre nostalgic charm. White against the rich walnut tone the hieratic profiles seem to protrude from the brief claustral landscape from which they rise beheaded, figures of a saintliness made spirit, rigid enigmatic lines of great unknown souls. A decrepit monk in the late hour trudges in the half-light of the altar, quiet in his shaggy habit, and prays the prayers of eighty years of love.

Outside the sunset grows dim. Menacing iron-colored streaks loom in the dis- tance over the mountains ahead. The dream nears its end36 and the soul suddenly alone seeks a comfort a faith in the sad hour. In the distance one can see the mystical warlike lookouts of the Casentino castles slowly being submerged.

All around is a great silence a great emptiness in the false light full of cold glimmers still flashing in the grip of the shadow. And memory flies again to the gentle ladies with white arms on the balconies down there: like in a dream like a chivalric dream! I go out. The small square is deserted. I sit on the low wall. Figures wander, torchlights wander and go out: the monks take leave of the pilgrims.

A light continuous breath wafts up from the forest, but one hears neither the rustling of the dark mass nor its flowing through the caves. A bell from the little Franciscan church tinkles in the sadness of the cloister: and the day from the shadow, it seems to mourn the dying of the day. Francis received the stigmata.

VIII, 1—6. In fre- quently incorporating lines from other poets in his own poetry, Dante in particu- lar, Campana is a precursor to both Eliot and Montale. I CLIMB39 in Space, outside Time The water the wind The soundness of first things — Human work40 on the liquid Element — nature leading Layers of rocks upon layers — the wind Playing in the valley — and shadow of the wind The cloud — the distant warning Of the river in the valley — And the collapse of the buttress — the landslide The victory of the element — the wind Playing in the valley.

On the endless valley that rises in steps The little stone house on the wearisome green: The white image of the element. Le onde telluriche. E varco e varco. Campigno: paese barbarico, fuggente, paese notturno, mistico incubo del caos. E le tue rive bianche come le nubi, triangolari, curve come gonfie vele: paese barbarico, fuggente, paese notturno, mistico incubo del Caos.

Dante la sua poesia di movimento, mi torna tutta in memoria. O pellegrino, o pellegrini che pensosi andate! Una delle pie donne a lei dintorno, inginocchiata cercava di consolarla: ma lei non voleva essere consolata, ma lei gettata a terra voleva piangere tutto il suo pianto. The telluric waves. The last asterisk42 of the melody of the Falterona hides in the thicket of clouds. On the distant slope thevictorious line of the young fir trees shines through, the vanguard of youthful giants43 serried in battle, happy in the sun along the long torrential slope.

In the background, in the rustling of the black forests encamping closer and closer, the enormous crag folds grotesquely upon itself, like a pachyderm on all fours under the dark mass: the Verna. And I keep on crossing. Your inhabitant reveals the night of the ancient human animal in his gestures. Your turbulent mountains outline the grotesque element: a lout, a fat whore flee under the racing clouds. And your banks45 white as the clouds, triangular, curved like swollen sails: barbarous, fleeing town, nocturnal town, mystical incubus of Chaos.

I rest now for the last time in the solitude of the forest. Dante46 and his poetry of movement, it all comes back to mind. O pilgrim, o pilgrims that so pensive walk! One of the pious women around her tried to con- sole her on her knees: but she did not want to be consoled, but 41telluric melody: the melody generated by all the geological elements of the Falterona. Monte Filetto, 25 Settembre 9. Un usignolo canta tra i rami del noce. Il fiume canta bene la sua cantilena.

Le stelle danzavano sul poggio deserto. Nessuno viene per la strada. Mi piace dai balconi guar- dare la campagna deserta abitata da alberi sparsi, anima della soli- tudine forgiata di vento. Il fiume riprende la sua cantilena. Vado via. Mount Filetto, September 25 9. A nightingale sings among the branches of the walnut tree. The hilltop is too beautiful against a sky too blue. The river sings its sing- song well. For an hour now I have been looking at the clearing down there and the road halfway up the hillside leading to it.

Up here live the hawks. The light summer rain50 was beating down like rich chords on the leaves of the walnut tree. But the leaves of the acacia dear to the night bent noiselessly like a green shadow. The blue opens between these two trees. The walnut tree is in front of the window of my room. At night it seems to gather all the shadow and curve the dark melodious leaves like a harvest of songs51 onto the round milky almost human trunk: the acacia knows how to reveal its outline like a chimeric haze.

The stars were dancing on the deserted hilltop. No one is coming down the road. From the bal- conies I like to watch the deserted countryside inhabited by scat- tered trees, soul of solitude forged by the wind. Today that the sky and the landscape were so soft after the rain I thought about the young ladies of Maupassant and Jammes,52 their pallid ovals bowed on the tapestry and engravings, lost in memories. The river takes up its singsong again.

I leave. I look at the window once more: the slope is a little gold painting in the squeaking of the hawks. One of the numerous references to painting in The Verna. Jammes: the softness of the landscape after the rain evokes the softness of literary figures. Ecco le rocce, strati su strati, monumenti di tenacia solitaria che consolano il cuore degli uomini. Non so. To render the landscape, virgin country that only the gentle river down in the valley fills with its noise of fresh shivers, painting is not enough, you need the water, the element itself, the gentle melody of the water that spreads among the gorges over the vast wreckage of its bed, that sweet as the ancient voices of the winds advances in regal curves toward the valleys: because here she is really queen of the landscape.

The water turns with clear deep splashes leaving the high pastoral scenery of great trees and hills. Here are the rocks, layers upon layers, monuments of solitary tenacity that console the hearts of men. And my destiny fleeing55 toward the spell of distant mirages of fortune which still smile down from the blue mountains has seemed sweet to me: and to hear the murmur of the water under the naked rocks, still fresh from the depths of the earth.

Ribera, dove vidi le tue danze arieggiate di secchi accordi? Il tuo satiro aguzzo alla danza dei vittoriosi accordi? Nude scheletriche stampe, sulla rozza parete in un meriggio tor- rido fantasmi della pietra. Le fontane hanno taciuto nella voce del vento. Il vento allenta e raffrena il morso del lontano dolore.

Ecco son volto. This is how my memory, how the water is. After the spiritual landscapes58 without spirit, after the golden twilight, sweet as the song of the omnipresent darkness is the song of the water under the rocks: as the element is sweet in the black splen- dor of the eyes of the Spanish virgins: and like the strings of the guitars of Spain. Ribera,59 where did I see your dances accom- panied by harsh chords?

Your pointed satyr in the dance of the victorious chords? And on the opposite side your other face, the knight of death, your other face deep heart, dancing heart, satyr girdled with vine leaves dancing on the sacred obscenity of Silenus? Bare skeletal engravings, on the ragged wall one torrid afternoon phantoms of the stone.

I listen. The fountains have fallen silent in the voice of the wind. From the rock a trickle of water drips into a hollow. The wind slackens and checks the bit of distant sorrow. I have turned around now. Among the rocks of twilight a black horned motion- less figure60 watches me motionless with golden eyes. Down there in the twilight the plain of Romagna. Sembra dormire. Quel fanciullo o quella immagine proiettata dalla mia nostalgia? Marradi Antica volta. Specchio velato Il mattino arride sulle cime dei monti.

Venere passa in barroccio accoccolata per la strada conventuale. The water of the mill flows even and invisible into the mill- stream. I see a boy again, the same boy, lying on the grass down there. He seems asleep. I think back at my childhood: how much time has passed since the magnetic glimmers of the stars told me for the first time of the infinity of deaths!

Time has gone by, has condensed, has gone by: as the water goes by, motionless for that boy: leaving behind the silence, the deep and level mill- stream: conserving silence as each day its shadow. That boy or that image projected by my longing?

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So motion- less down there: like my corpse. Veiled Mirror Morning smiles down from the mountaintops. High on the pinnacles of a desolate triangle the castle65 grows bright, higher and more distant. Venus66 goes by crouched in a cart down the conventual road. The river winds through the valley: broken and bellowing at times it sings and rests in wide stretches of blueness: and more swiftly it runs along the black walls a red cupola laughs in the distance with its lion and the bell towers crowd together and in the restless blackening of the rooftops in the sun a long veranda which has put on a many-colored comment of arches!

Son capitato in mezzo a bona gente. La finestra della mia stanza che affronta i venti: e la. Monotona dolcezza della vita patriarcale. Fine del pellegrinaggio. I have come upon good people. The window of my room facing the winds: and the. Snow has fallen in the distance. The landlady quietly makes my bed aided by the young servant girl. Monotonous sweetness of the patriarchal life. End of the pilgrimage. The woman sitting pale still young appears On the last steep slope near the ancient house: Before her the uncertain valleys unfold Toward the high solitudes of the horizons: The gentle white-haired woman hears the cuckoo singing.

Also echoes of St. The great soaring spirits are the great artists of the past. Da selve oscure il torrente Sorte ed in torpidi gorghi la chiostra di rocce Lambe ed involge aereo cilestrino. E dalle altezze agli infiniti albori Vigili, calan trepidi pei monti, Tremuli e vaghi nelle vive fonti Gli echi dei nostri due sommessi cuori. E si distingue il loro verde canto. The stream flows out of the dark woods6 And pale blue and airy in sluggish eddies It skims and enfolds the circle of rocks. And more slowly the cuckoo trickles two veiled notes Into the azure silence.

The air laughs: the trumpet7 starts to blare down in the valley: the mass of racers Unfolds: it has sharp spurts: our hearts leap up: and it shouts and rides over the bridges. And the echoes of our two subdued hearts From the heights to infinite dawns vigilant, anxiously descend the mountains, Tremulous and vague in living fountains. And one can still make out their green song. The Verna, sec. This poem is full of echoes from Dante, who is twice quoted directly further on in the composition cf. The race described in this stanza is transformed into a joyous, bacchic celebration of life, a sort of Orphic initiation the reference to the god Dionysus was explicit in the variant of the manuscript.

On the literal level, the shouts of the crowd at the passage of the racers. La messe, intesa al misterioso coro Del vento, in vie di lunghe onde tranquille Muta e gloriosa per le mie pupille Oh if like the stream that rushing downward falls And comes to rest into an even blueness, If so toward your walls the soul inclined To nothingness along its fated journey,14 If in crystalline peace toward your walls I could reach out, in an even peace, And the memory reflect of a divine Serenity lost, o you immortal Soul! O you! The longing for peace is strongly reminiscent of the Francesca episode.

O Speranza! O hope! By the thousand, the fruits Glisten in the summer! IV, 79— The Inferno episode can help clarify this image. As Virgil is welcomed back by the great spirits of antiquity, so Campana also hears a voice that wel- comes him, made pure shadow, like the gliding heroes of the first stanza.

Campana feels himself being called back to the world to which he knows he belongs and for which he lives. XXVII, Ma un giorno Salirono sopra la nave le gravi matrone di Spagna Da gli occhi torbidi e angelici Dai seni gravidi di vertigine. But one day Aboard ship came the solemn matrons of Spain With turbid angelic eyes With breasts heavy with vertigo.

We went on and on, for days and days: the ships Heavy with sails slackened by warm breezes slowly went by: Near the upper deck a bronze-colored girl Of the new race appeared to us, Eyes shining and clothes in the wind! XXII, ; Purg. XII, 98; Par. XI, 3. Limpid fresh and electric was the light Of evening, and there the tall houses seemed deserted Down there on the sea of the pirate27 Of the abandoned city Between the yellow sea and the dunes.

Pale blue the arch between the columns Quivers in streaks32 among majestic buildings Pure white streaks in the blue: lost Flights: up white youths in columns. The water the sea Exhaling36 from it? Grida e richiami beffardi e brutali si spandono pel vico quando qualche avventore entra. Tre tedeschi irsuti sparuti e scalcagnati seggono compostamente attorno ad un litro. Fumo acre delle pastasciutte: tinnire di piatti e di bicchieri: risa dei maschi dalle dita piene di anelli che si lasciano accarezzare dalle femmine, ora che hanno mangiato.

In un quadro a bianco e nero una ragazza bruna con una chitarra mostra i denti e il bianco degli occhi appe- sa in alto. Serenata sui Lungarni. A tavern always deserted during the day in the evening shows a bustle of sinister figures behind the glasspane. Shouts and brutal sneers spill out into the street whenever a customer goes in. Across the way in the short narrow alley there is a single window with a grating in the red corroded wall of an old building, where one can see behind the bars doltish faces of haggard prostitutes peering out, whose heavy rouge lends them the tragic look of clowns.

That deserted passageway, stinking from the urinal and the mold on the corroded walls, has the tavern as its only view at the far end. The painted clowns seem to follow with great curiosity the life unfolding behind the glass- pane, amid the smoke of the sour-smelling pasta, the laughter of the men kept by their women and the sudden silences caused by the vice squad: Three underage girls monotonously sway their precocious charms.

Three hairy Germans, gaunt and shabby, sit composedly around a liter of wine. One of them with a Christ-like face is dressed in priestly robes! Acrid smoke from the pasta: tinkling of dishes and glasses: laughter of the males with their fingers full of rings who let themselves be caressed by the females, now that they have eaten. The maids go by in the air acrid with smoke giving out a musical call: Pastaas.

In a black-and-white painting a dark girl with a guitar shows her teeth and the white of her eyes, suspended overhead. Serenade on the Lungarnos. From the Florentine hills a weary breeze descends on me: it carries a smell of lifeless corollas, mixed with an odor of lacquer and varnish from old paintings, barely perceptible Mereskowski. In a girl he sees he discerns the image of an ancient Etruscan. Merezkowskij, Russian writer — Qualche matrona piena di fascino. Accanto una rete nera a triangolo a berretta ricade su una spalla che si schiude: un viso bruno aquilino di indovina, uguale a la Notte di Michelangiolo.

A few matrons full of charm. A feeling of dance51 gathers in the air. I listen: the huge baroque tower now lighted casts a sense of liberation in the air. The transparent eye of the clock appears high above illuminating the evening, its hands golden: a little white madonna is already visible behind the railing with the small corroded lantern lighted: And already the huge baroque tower is empty and one can see that it bears, illuminated, the symbols of time and faith.

Here the poor fisherwoman draws the veil on her shoulders. Ascolto i discorsi. La vita ha qui un forte senso naturalistico. Come in Spagna. Ribera e Baccarini. Durer, Ribera. Ribera: il passo di danza del satiro aguzzo su Sileno osceno briaco. Ragazzine alla marinara, le liscie gambe lattee che passano a scatti strisciando spinte da un vago prurito bianco.

Grandi figure della tradizione classica chiudono la loro forza tra le ciglia. I notice that she has bitten lips: of the Spaniard, of Italian softness: and at the same time: the memory, the reflection: of ancient Latin youth. Life here has a strong naturalistic feeling. As in Spain. Happiness of living in a place without philosophy. Ribera57 and Baccarini. Durer,59 Ribera. Ribera: the dance step of the pointed satyr over the obscene drunken Silenus. The echo of the sharp chords clearly ebbing in the muted shadow. Little girls in sailor suits, their smooth milky legs that shuffle by jerkily, pushed by a vague white tingle.

The delicate bust60 of an adolescent smiles, joyous light of the Italian spirit, a white virginal purity preserved in the delicate hollows of the marble. Great figures of the classic tradition enclose their strength between the eyelashes. Tutta mi siete presente esile e ner- vosa. E ancora il magne- tismo di quando voi chinaste il capo, voi fiore meraviglioso di una razza eroica, mi attira non ostante il tempo ancora verso di voi! Eppure Manuelita sappiatelo se lo potete: io non pensavo, non pen- savo a voi: io mai non ho pensato a voi.

Di notte nella piazza deser- ta, quando nuvole vaghe correvano verso strane costellazioni, alla triste luce elettrica io sentivo la mia infinita solitudine. Once more I see you, Manuelita, the small face armed with the combative63 wing of your hat, the ostrich feather rolled and swaying heroically, your small steps full of contained energy on the ground of heroic promises! You are all present before me slender and nervous.

The powder sprinkled like snow on your face consumed by an inner fire, your rose-colored dress that proclaimed your virginity like a dawn full of promises! And still the magnetism of when you bowed your head, you wonderful flower of a heroic race, still draws me toward you regardless of time! And yet Manuelita you must know if you can: I did not think, I did not think of you: I never thought of you.

The main theme of this composition is the contrast between the world of poetry and the world of a girl from Bahia Blanca. Entravo, ricordo, allora nella biblioteca: io che non potevo Manuelita io che non sapevo pensare a voi. Le lampade elettriche oscillavano lentamente. Le bambine dei Bohemiens, i capelli sciolti, gli occhi arditi e profondi congelati in un languore ambiguo amaro attorno dello stagno liscio e deserto.

I would lose you then Manuelita, forgive me,67 among the throng of supple young ladies with soft faces unconsciously fierce, violently exciting between the two bands of smooth hair in the immobility of the goddesses of the race. The electric lamps swayed slowly. Up from the pages a dead world sprang back to life, ancient images69 arose, swaying slowly with the shadow of the lampshade, and above my head weighed a mysterious sky, heavy with vague forms, rent now and then by melodramatic moans: ghosts70 dissolving silently to be reborn to inextinguishable life in the silence full of the wonderful depths of destiny.

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Lost memories, images were forming already dead as the silence grew deeper. The little girls of the Bohemians,72 their hair loose, their eyes bold and deep, frozen in an ambiguous bitter languor around the smooth and deserted pond. E vi rivedevo Manuelita poi: che vigilavate pallida e lontana: voi anima semplice chiusa nelle vostre semplici armi. So Manuelita: voi cercavate la grande rivale. So: la cercavate nei miei occhi stanchi che mai non vi appresero nulla.

Essa era per cui solo il sogno mi era dolce. Essa era per cui io dimenticavo il vostro piccolo corpo convulso nella stretta del guanciale, il vostro piccolo corpo pericoloso tutto adorabile di snellezza e di forza. And so those hours of dream75 passed far away from you, hours of mystical sensual depths that dissolved in tenderness the most acrid clots of sorrow, hours of complete hap- piness that abolished time76 and the entire world, a long sip at the wellsprings of Oblivion!

And then I would see you again Manue- lita: keeping watch pale and distant: your simple soul closed in your simple weapons. I know Manuelita: you were looking for the great rival,77 I know: you looked for her in my weary eyes that never revealed anything. But now you must know if you can: I had to remain faithful to my destiny: it was a restless soul I always remembered when I went out to sit on the benches in the deserted square under the racing clouds.

It was for her alone that dream was sweet for me. It was for her that I would forget your small body convulsing in the grip of the pillow, your small dangerous body all adorable with slenderness and strength. And yet I swear to you Manuelita I loved you I love you and I will always love you more than any other woman. Silenzio: il viola della notte: in rabeschi dalle sbarre bianche il blu del sonno. Ora il mio paese tra le montagne. The cell79 is white,80 the cot is white. The cell is white, full of a stream of voices that die in angelic cradles, the white cell is full of angelic bronze voices.

Silence: the violet of the night: in arabesques from the white bars the blue of sleep. I think of Anika: deserted stars on the snowy mountains: white deserted streets: then white marble churches: in the streets Anika sings: a buffo81 with an infernal eye guides her, shouting. Now my town among the mountains. I at the parapet of the cemetery82 in front of the station watching the black march of the engines, up, down. There he is described as having the profile of a goat, which identifies him as a Dionysus-like character leading a procession of Bacchantes. It must be an assimilation.

Powerful hallucinatory experience. Sulla linea ferroviaria si scorgeva vicino, in uno scorcio falso di luce plumbea lo scalo delle merci. Lungo la linea di circonvallazione passavano pomposamente sfumate figure femminili, avvolte in pelliccie, i cappelli copiosamente romantici, avvicinandosi a piccole scosse automatiche, rialzando la gorgiera carnosa come volatili di bassa corte.

Il vapore delle macchine si confondeva colla nebbia: i fili si appen- devano e si riappendevano ai grappoli di campanelle dei pali tele- grafici che si susseguivano automaticamente. Dalla breccia dei bastioni rossi corrosi nella nebbia si aprono silenziosamente le lunghe vie. Il malvagio vapore della nebbia intri- stisce tra i palazzi velando la cima delle torri, le lunghe vie silen- ziose deserte come dopo il saccheggio. The hills showed through more distant on the plain battered by loud noises.

On the railway line one could see the nearby freight yard in a false slant of leaden light. Along the outer road in shaded outline female figures went by pompously, wrapped in furs, their hats abundantly romantic, approaching with little automatic jerks, raising their fleshy wattles87 like farm- yard fowls.

Muffled thuds, whistles from the yard heightened the diffuse monotony in the air. The steam from the engines mingled with the fog: the wires hanged over and over from the clusters of bells on the telegraph poles that automatically followed one another. The noxious vapor of the fog droops among the buildings veiling the top of the towers, the long silent streets deserted as if they had been pillaged.

A few girls all small, all dark, artfully wrapped in their scarfs, skip across the streets, making them emptier still. And in the nightmare of the fog, in that graveyard,88 suddenly they seem like so many small animals to me, all alike, skipping, all black, on their way to hatch in a long hiberna- tion one of their malignant dreams. Si vede subito che siamo in un centro di cultura. Formano sotto i portici il corteo pallido e interessante delle grazie moderne, le mie colleghe, che vanno a lezione!

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La neve seguita a cadere e si scioglie indifferente nel fango della via. I cocchieri imbacuccati tirano fuori la testa dal bavero come bestie stupite. One can see at once that we are in a center of learning. Now and then they look around with the ingenuousness of Ophelia,89 three at a time, speaking under their breath. Under the porticos they form the pale interesting procession of modern graces, my classmates on their way to class. The wound of her lips burned on her pale face. She came and went by bearing the flower and the wound of her lips.

With an elegant walk, too simple and too conscious, she went by. The snow keeps on falling and melts indifferently in the mud of the street. The young dressmaker and the lawyer laugh and chatter. All bundled up the coachmen pull their heads out of their coat collars like bewildered animals. Every- thing is indifferent to me.

Today all the monotonous and dirty greyness of the city stands out. Everything melts like snow in this slush: and deep down I feel the sweetness of this dissolving of everything that has made us suffer. So much sweeter that soon the snow will spread inexorably into a white sheet and then we will be able to rest in white dreams again.

There is a mirror in front of me and the clock strikes: the light reaches me from the porticos through the curtains of the glass window. Ecco inevitabile sotto i portici lo sciame aereoplanante delle signorine intellettuali, che ride e fa glu glu mostrando i denti, in caccia, sembra, di tutti i nemici della scienza e della cultura, che va a frangere ai piedi della cattedra. My old classmate stops me, already very bright at the time and now already a squint-eyed festering literature professor he tempts me, confides in me with an ever filthier smile.

He concludes: you could try to send some- thing to Amore Illustrato91 Street. Here under the porticos the inevitable airplaning swarm of intellectual young ladies, who laugh and go gobble gobble showing their teeth, in pursuit, it seems, of all the enemies of science and culture, that is going to crash at the foot of the professorial chair. I go get muddied in the middle of the street: time when the illustrious jackass ramps with his load of black inventorial science On the doorstep of the house I turn and see the classic, mus- tached, colossal emissary92 Ah!

I, A drop of blood- red96 light, then the shadow, then a drop of blood-red light, sweet- ness of the entombed.