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Literature and Ideas

Hawthorn

Photograph by Thomas B.
It was March,
on the way
to the well.

The hedgerows
had woken
up white

like snow,
but not quite.

It’s the trembling
hawthorn’s

first breath
of morning.
Di marzo per la via
della fontana
la siepe s’è svegliata
tutta bianca,
ma non è neve,
quella: è biancospino
tremulo ai primi
soffi del mattino.

Umberto Saba
(1883–1957)

Skyline

Venice, Looking East from the Guidecca, Sunrise (1818) by J.M.W Turner.
I often look
to the sky.

I look in the morning
when the first light climbs
and the whole thing clings
to my eyes.

It comes
to drink, and I cling
to it like a plant
that devours the light.
Io guardo spesso il cielo. Lo guardo di mattino nelle
ore di luce e tutto il cielo s'attacca agli occhi e viene a
bere, e io a lui mi attacco, come un vegetale
che si mangia la luce.

Mariangela Gualtieri (1951–)

Dead Doves

White-crowned Pigeon by
John James Audubon
(1785–1851).
Can those
who have seen
the bones
that go
a certain
shade of grey
that resembles
the plumages
of pigeons,
bones
that are thrown away
like crops
that rot in sun
when autumn comes —
can those
who have seen
the bones
still love,
and not succumb to them?
yānimāni apatthāni
alāpūneva sārade
kāpotakāni aṭṭhīni tāni
disvāna kā rati

Dhammapada, verse 149

The Two Roads

The Card Players by Paul Cézanne (1839–1906).

Many writers consider their art not as something to be mastered — and as something that must be mastered — but as a game of chance, on which they can test their luck. They will happily hand themselves over to Fortune, basing their own worth on nothing more than her valuation (although they are bound to inflate it a little, of course).

There are two traps, two roads to destruction: the first consists in adapting too easily to the tastes of the public, the second in holding too faithfully to one's own idiosyncratic system.

Paul Valéry (1871–1945)
Tel Quel

Beaucoup d'écrivains considerent leur art, non comme chose dont il faut se rendre maitre — sine qua non — mais comme un jeu de hasard ou l'on peut risquer sa chance. Ils se remettent tout entiers a la fortune et se donneront la valeur qu'elle voudra bien leur conférer. (Ils ajouteront meme quelque chose.)

Il y a donc deux écueil, deux manieres de s'égarer et de périr: l'adaptation trop exacte au public; la fidelité trop étroite a son propre systeme.

Beyond Choice

Fate of the Animals by Franz Marc (1880–1916).
I follow you, Fate. And, hell, if I chose to rebel,
I'd follow you still — under duress and bated breath.
Schicksal, ich folge dir! Und wollt’ ich nicht,
ich müsst’ es doch und unter Seufzen tun!

Friedrich Nietzsche (1844–1900)
couplet from Morgenröte, section 195

War Cry

Wolf and Two Doves
by Sinibaldo Scorza
(1589–1631).
Like predatory wolves
that prowl through pitch-black mists,
instinctive and impelled
by noxious stings of hunger,
while the cubs that were left
behind are waiting
with dessicated throats,
we march to certain
death. We shall sprint
through their volleying spears,
storming their city
while the night stays black.

Its darkness keeps us safe from attack.
                                        … inde, lupi ceu
raptores atra in nebula, quos improba ventris
exegit caecos rabies, catulique relicti
faucibus exspectant siccis, per tela, per hostis
vadimus haud dubiam in mortem, mediaeque tenemus
urbis iter; nox atra cava circumvolat umbra.

Publius Vergilius Maro (Virgil)
Aeneid 2.355–60

Sails and Flies

Study of a cow by Silvio Bicchi (1874–1948).
Better by far to sleep on shaded grass
than on a gilded bed. Your purple sheets
don't overawe me. I'm at ease, at last.

Perhaps a cheerful heart can overthrow
all darker thoughts and every sordid pain.
I feel completely calm and unalone.

As sun begins to dawn, the cows repeat
their gentle sounds, herds harmonising peacefully.
Perchè dolce più assai era fra l’erba 
Sotto l’ombre dormir queto e sicuro, 
Che ne’ dorati letti, e di superba 
Porpora ornati: e forse più ogn' oscuro 
Pensier discaccia, ed ogni doglia acerba, 
Sentir col cor tranquillo, allegro, e puro 
Nell’ apparir del Sol mugghiar gli armenti, 
Che l’armonia de’ più soavi accenti.

Vittoria Colonna (1492–1547)