Da qui vedo la luna (Narrativa) (Italian Edition)

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Wikizionario Dizionario e lessico. Wikiquote Una raccolta di citazioni. Wesleyan University Press, Robert Hollander and Jean Hollander, intro. Robert Hollander and Jean Hol- lander, intro. He is a professor of literary criticism and comparative literature at the University of Cassino. Some of his po- etry books are: As a journalist he collaborates with several newspapers and radio programs and he is the editor of Testo a fronte dedicated to the theory and the practice of literary translation.

Un testo che divenne ben presto una specie di manuale europeo, con i suoi innegabili pregi, ma anche con la sua concezione rigorosamente strutturalistica della letteratura. E con argomentazioni ancora oggi vive e attuali. Certamente Steiner non lo conosceva. E si tratta di una parte che, relativamente alla questione specifica delle traduzioni di poesia, resta ancora oggi una delle poche trattazioni che affrontino esaurientemente anche questioni tecniche. E per avvalorare la propria critica riporta queste due citazioni da Levy: Alla definizione normativa corrisponderebbe la traduzione ideale.

Come tradurre, allora, la poesia? Sono le domande che a questo punto un traduttologo si sente porre. Secondo questa impostazione, lo scontro tra scuole traduttologiche somiglierebbe a quello in atto nel mondo del restauro: Il nocciolo del problema, a nostro avviso, sta proprio nel verbo usato per porre la domanda: Una posizione da cui consegue la definizione blanchottiana di traduttore: Lo dimostra molto bene Lorenzo De Carli nel saggio Proust.

Il tutto, concettualmente, nella piena consapevolezza della stratificazione delle lingue storiche. Esperienze di traduzione ed. Anche se la proposta teorica intertestuale, per alcuni aspetti, potrebbe farsi risalire al concetto classico di imitatio o di mimesis, che a sua volta oscillava tra conformatio e commutatio: Secondo la definizione della Kristeva: Due tipi di comunicazione letteraria, Einaudi Da questa angolatura ci si sottrae alla impostazione tradizionale che assegna alla traduzione il compito impossibile di una riproduzione totale, e si pone in modo nuovo sia il compito del traduttore sia quello della critica della traduzione.

Con le idee sulla traduzione sostenute da Eco non si esce dalle dicotomie e dai dogmatismi si continua ad oscillare tra Croce e Jakobson nella convinzione che la poesia sia intraducibile. Szondi compie quindi un acutissimo rilievo di poetica che porta ad una comprensione tutta interna della traduzione. Gerolamo, Lutero, Pasternak, Ezra Pound, Robert Graves, Paul Celan, Baudelaire come traduttori distinguendole dalle traduzioni-non- testo destinate a deperire rapidamente. Sostiene Mattioli in Studi di poetica e retorica Quanto al concetto di ritmo, per noi particolarmente attuale - si veda il volume Ritmologia.

Il ritmo del linguaggio. Poesia e traduzione, apparso nel per i tipi di Marcos y Marcos - mi limito in questa sede a ricordare i tre fondamentali indirizzi della ricerca: Mentre la prima edizione era stata pubblicata da Sansoni nel , nella traduzione di Ruggero Bianchi. Guerini e Associati, Ogni nuovo testo, con la propria costituzione, determina i propri determinanti, legge e modifica i testi passati, pronto ad essere a sua volta letto e modificato dai testi a venire. Una impostazione teorica che trova una sicura fonte in E. Benveniste, Problemi di linguistica generale, trad.

Vittoria Giuliani, Il Saggiatore, Milano, , p. Such conceptions are the ex- pression of an idealism that is particularly outdated nowadays, against which Italian aesthetics of a neo-phenomenological bent from Banfi to Anceschi to Formaggio to Mattioli have fought for three decades at least victoriously, I would say. According to this kind of thought, the clash between schools of trans- lation would resemble the one that exists in the world of art restoration: The Movement of Language by Friedmar Apel is a fundamental study in this regard.

The idea is commonly accepted for the so-called language of arrival. No one, in fact, casts any doubts on the need to constantly retranslate the classics in order to adapt them to the transformations that language con- tinuously undergoes. The so-called departure text, on the other hand, is usually viewed as a monument — immobile in time — marmoreal and rustproof. And yet, it too is moving in time, because the words which com- pose it are also moving semantically in time, as well as the syntactic and grammatical structures and so on.

Essentially, what is being proposed is to consider the classical or modern literary text to be translated not as an immobile rock in the sea, but as a floating platform, where the translator works on the live body of the text, but the text itself is in constant transformation, or precisely, moving in time. In this view, the aesthetic dignity of the translation appears as the fruit of a meeting between equals the author and the translator fated to cause the traditional dichotomous pairs to fall away, since it is aimed at removing all stiffness from the act of translation, by giving its product an intrinsic autonomous dignity as text.

In this way, the translator takes possession of the path of growth and germination of the text in its various phases. In this regard, a linguist may speak of the formativity of the text; while a poet may speak of sympathetic adherence, on the part of the translator, not so much to the finished text, but to the myriad of emotional cells that made it possible.

Previously it had been the teaching house of the Com- panions of Jesus, and before the Convent of the Humbled, and even before the Braidense Library… By transferring this description to language, you obtain the diode effect, which is like seeing from high a heap of piled up but transparent phonetic and semantic layers. Introduction H olocaust survivors, returning home after liberation and the long homeward odysseys that followed, soon found themselves prey to a new conflict: This crisis of representation stemmed, in part, from specific aspects of the Final Solution, which deployed tactics of cruel dehumanization, the debasement of significative language, and the eradication of all subject hood and agency, not to speak of unheard-of physical hardships, slavery, and torture.

When traditional literary figures are no longer appropriate as an ex- pressive strategy, what recourse does the survivor-writer have? In this model, the living must speak for those who did not survive. It is not enough merely to tell, but the reader-listener after the fact must also be a willing interlocutor and witness, mirroring and repeating the narrative testimonial act of the survi- vor to create an infinite chain of witnessing and telling, listening and wit- nessing.

By displacing the subject position away from the lyric, authoritative first person, Levi problematizes his own status as survivor, and thus, in effect, his own position in this interactive model of witnessing. In effect, Levi establishes himself as a border figure who stands astride these two opposing zones of the moral system of Auschwitz—drowned and saved— but recognizes that it is his very identification with both survivor hood and death that warrants his occupancy of an entirely different intermediary zone.

This is followed by a direct citation of vv.

La Teta Y La Luna [Italian Edition]

Works Cited Agamben, Giorgio. Quel che resta di Auschwitz. Italian text and translation, and commentary. Princeton University Press, Oxford University Press, University of Toronto Press, Feldman, Ruth and Brian Swann, trans. Faber and Faber, Harvard University Press, La ballata del vecchio marinaio. Stamperia del Borgo Po, Tuttolibri—La stampa 9 Apr. La notte dei Girondini. Lo sguardo da lontano. I sommersi e i salvati. La via delle maschere. Marcos y Marcos, The lingua franca of the univers concentrationnaire, the Lagerjargon was a mixture of all of the national and cultural languages represented in the camp.

It contained elements of the sign systems of both victim and oppressor: Asked for some advice, I told the students that they were not to be disturbed by the idea that there was an original in the same sense in which a translator should not be disturbed by the suspicion that there is a Perfect Language, a reine Sprache, somewhere in the skies. The preface cited by Anissimov on pp. It is unclear from her note whether it is taken directly from the preface or has been adapted together with another source.

I am grateful to Mrs. Feldman for her generous willingness to discuss her translation of this poem with me in our phone conversation of 26 Feb. Menard Press, , for which the pair won the John Florio Prize and as such is listed as a co-translator on the revised and expanded publication, Collected poems London, Boston: A Personal Perspective by Rina Ferrarelli I talians divide their country into three parts, northern, central and southern.

Some of the northern and southern so-called dialects are as different from standard Italian as Portuguese or Spanish, and are, like them, separate languages, Italian being a language the immi- grants had to learn in school. That I had to learn in school. At the age of five or six, before we left our countries of birth for a foreign country, we were translating from the mother tongue into Italian, what I call our father tongue. And with it we translated ourselves from the motherland, the folk culture which was either matriarchal or a state be- tween the two, into the fatherland, la patria, a national concept and a na- tional project.

Today, because of the history we have lived through, we do not like the connotations of the word fatherland, but that is what patria trans- lates into, the root being from pater in Latin. Pater became patre in my ver- nacular, padre in Italian, father in English.

Also, the nation is patriarchal in its ways. Ethno-linguists might tell us that the countries that use fatherland, different as they are among themselves, are probably even more culturally different, or were at one time, from countries whose language has them say motherland or homeland.

The Italian language and the culture that was imparted with it were used to unify the peninsula and the islands in the twentieth century, and to give all the various tribes a common tongue and a common identification. It was in fact a kind of naturalization, for in the translation, we lost some aspects of our identities and acquired others. The mother tongue had an intonation, diction and syntax that set us apart from other Italians, even people from the same general area. It not only pinpointed us to a region, but to a particular town.

We recognized each other through our speech as through a habit or dress, a costume. I grew up in San Giovanni in Fiore Province of Cosenza in the region of Calabria , and I remember coming home from school every day with news of the new tongue I was learning. Guess how we say marmitta pot in Italian? I would ask my mother, and then quickly answer myself: Frissura frying pan was padella, forgiaru blacksmith fabbro ferraio! And these differences in vocabulary were not ex- ceptions but the rule. We say them against our teeth. Our meta- phors are different: Again, when I say my dialect, my vernacular, I mean the spoken, not written tongue, of my home town.

Not my province, my region, but my hometown. Mastering Italian, the living language we had to use at school and with strangers, was the biggest challenge of my life between the ages of five and fifteen, and the beginning of what would turn out to be a long trans-lation, a life-long picaresque journey. As long as I lived in my home- town, I was always translating. One language at school, one at home and in the neighborhood. We were expected to speak Italian with the people from out of town, translating sometimes for them if they did not understand the shopkeepers.

It was only when I went away to school at the age of ten to attend a college prep school—my town did not have one at that time—that I switched to Italian for good. Still, I enjoyed listening to the poetry recited in the mother tongue. An un- usual occurrence. People were dis- couraged and even punished for speaking the mother tongue, or rewarded, as I was, for using the Italian language correctly, and they were never asked to write in it.

The vernacular is by definition unwritten. Even so, some po- ets chose to write in it. Unfortunately, they seldom found an audience out- side of their towns. These books are collectibles. Dialect poetry, until recently, was marginalized in the Italian culture. For the reasons I mentioned. Italy was perceived to be too fragmented and there was a movement toward union. But also for other more practical reasons. When a poet writes in the Italian language, his work can be read and understood by every Italian. When his work is in his own dialect, not in ours, the rest of us will need notes or a translation into Italian.

The other huge leap in my picaresque journey was switching from Italian to English after I emigrated. Total immersion was easier in this set- ting. I lived in a culture and in a household that spoke English—the uncle and aunt with whom I lived for the first two years spoke Italian and did to me at the beginning, but ran the household and communicated with each other and their children in English. And I was fifteen and in school, at St. And school fills the whole day in this country. After a few days or a week of orientation with a girl named Roberta who knew Italian, I was on my own. In a fog, a dark wood.

My school girl French! But I did not know English and she did not Italian. French was the only language we had in common. Neither French nor Italian, however, helped me with the pronuncia- tion of English vowels, the a in cat, the o in got and i in pit being very diffi- cult. Not to my ear. At that point, no one mentioned dia- lectal variations. It was hard to lift words and phrases out the common run of the spoken language. To understand my Aunt and the older Italians, especially my land- lady when I was in college, who did not speak English and did not speak Italian, the father tongue, I had to learn the Italian-American dialect which Ferdinando Alfonsi Almanacco, has called Italese, and which is made up of English words with Italian suffixes.


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And with English meanings even when the made-up word corresponds to an actual word in the Italian lan- guage. I never spoke this dialect myself, but I needed to know it. My landlady spoke a mixture of an Italian vernacular mixed with this Italian American dialect. In all of these exchanges, losses and gains. I went to see American movies, and they were no longer dubbed. Although this might seem a gain, I perceived it as a loss. I could no longer lose myself in a movie. And I was also expected to read American and English books in the original, a long time- consuming process.

What an innocent I had been abroad in my own coun- try. I had watched American movies dubbed in Italian and had asked no questions, seen no discrepancies. I never no- ticed how the lips moved. Or whether the gestures did not go with the words. What if cowboys spoke in long musical sentences instead of mono- syllables? I had never heard a cowboy speak English, neither in real life nor in a movie. How was I supposed to know that certain taciturn, reticent types went with certain landscapes? When I came to the States and told my new friends about this wonderful western I had seen, which starred Alan Ladd against the background of gorgeous mountain peaks, and they said, Shane, I did not recognize the title.

In this case too, I had not been much aware of the translation, neither of the movie nor of the title. Still, the amazing thing is that the story, and in the case of Shane, the nobil- ity of the character and the strong theme came across despite the differ- ences. I had the same experience discussing the movie Julius Caesar, which I had seen in Italian. The famous speeches and the key scenes had all come across. The mediums in this famously well-acted and produced movie had been the drama, the pictures, the force of the personalities brought to the screen by the actors, with the language, even in Italian, acquiring authority from them, aside from what the translator had been able to do, which I was not in a position to judge.

I was then the person for which translation is meant. Perhaps this is a commonplace which we sometimes forget. But, then, how could they? English has great synthetic power, and Shakespeare is master of syntactic conci- sion, a great inventor of verbs; while the forte of Italian is the strong phrase, the musical phrase. When I was growing up I never considered translation as one version of the original.

I had no idea what the differences between the two might be, the different approaches and complementary results, or that different versions might be needed for different purposes. Despite a spoken ver- nacular that deviated in major ways from Italian, which was in fact an- other language; despite the study of Latin and French, I took translations into Italian for granted just as the natives of any place take their language and mores for granted --as the only way something is said and done.

Translation, in this frame of reference, is seen as the same piece of writing with the very same words but in a different lan- guage. I did not entertain the idea that translators have to interpret what they read, and may interpret the same passage differently, or that if a word is ambiguous in one language, the same word might not be in another lan- guage. Dante chose to write his epic-length poem in the spoken tongue rather than in Latin, the literary language. And he consciously forged a national language out of his own Tuscan dialect. A language all writers had to sub- sequently learn, regardless of their mother tongue.

Alessandro Manzoni, who is given credit for developing the historical novel in the nineteenth century, and for enriching the language of prose, was a northern Italian who started with the language he had learned in school and then, he said, went to Tuscany to rinse it in the waters of the Arno. Translators not only have ways of reading first level of interpreta- tion ; they have ways of re-creating through their choices second level of interpretation character and literary persona, diction and syntax, rhythm and sound, tone.

Sometimes they have to invent what their own language does not have to come out with an equivalent. The original and the translation are both translations, and as such, approximations. Authors translate what they see and feel, the experi- ence of life into the experience of words, structures made of words, choos- ing out of huge vocabularies, and they may be more or less successful, more or less satisfied.

Regardless of how it was, how many versions this version went through, it is now fixed and the words are all a reader has. He has to try to imagine what the author saw or felt, and it is only when he has a view, that he can re-create the physical and emotional land- scapes. A translator has access to the original. For most of us, the approxi- mation that we call translation is all there is. Many of the books I read as a child were in translation. And in Italy, a great many prose writers and poets have also been gifted translators.

Sometimes, they too took for granted what they did, and so did their editors and publishers. When I started reading English Literature in college with barely a year of English—through some translation error, I started college at all of it was equally difficult for me. I had no bias in favor of modern or con- temporary works as the American students did, and I made no distinction between the English and American dialect.

They had to contend with archaic versions of English, while I read contemporary Italian translations. The strangeness I had encountered had to do with content, with elliptical political and social references rather than with terms and phrases that had become obsolete. The picaresque journey that is translation has continued throughout my life. Not only because learning involves translation; I have been profes- sionally involved with translation for many years, in my work, and as a poet. When I was still in college, I was asked by the poet Sam Hazo, who was one of my English professors at Duquesne University, to translate a few poems of Quasimodo.

I did, and that started me on my way, publish- ing them in Choice, a poetry journal edited by John Logan. But that was the beginning and the end for many years. I had no time write or translate when my kids were little. But when I started working, still part-time and at a research job in anthropology with a flexible schedule, my languages came into play again. I read and translated from ethnogra- phies, some of whom were in French, Italian and Spanish.

I have since rendered into English hundreds of individual poems, and I have col- lected some of my translations of modern Italian poets in three books: I always translated from Italian into English. Not that the language of poetry has much to do with the spoken tongue. Still, the point is valid. Also true that I always write in English, think in English, and have done so for decades, and that I seldom have much chance to speak Italian.

Thus, the challenge of reading, digging, understand- ing, of discovering another persona, of hearing another voice is missing, and this, which should make things easier, make them go faster, slows ev- erything down instead. But I am doing it. Translating by the Numbers by John DuVal I was raised in the faith and discipline of the New Criticism, scruti- nizing, dissecting, and reassembling that exquisite monument, the poem itself. This approach was useful because it taught us to learn from the mas- ters, how they packed the maximum meaning into every word despite the requirements of meter or rhyme.

It was also useful in that we learned to cherish the words of the great craftspeople of our language. Where it failed, I believe, is in not paying due respect to the language itself and the infinite choices it offers of saying almost the same thing, with infinite slight and delightful variations and always a hint that a phrase could be better phrased.

For us translators the New Critical approach is still useful in that it encourages us to study each word and each phrase of an original to learn what the original writer has done to make it so wonderfully what it is. The problem is that it directs us straight to the Slough of Despond, where we stay, sunk and moping unless Faith in the language we are translating into pulls us out. We will not find in English the phrase that G. Belli, for instance, wrote in Romanesco, the dialect of the people of Rome, but given how slowly our minds work and how vast our language is, we can always discover another phrase like it, and then another, and if we keep looking, we may find a better one than the ones we found before.

I had thought the following translation of a poem by Trilussa, another Romanesco poet, was finally and after much struggle finished when I had this down on paper: To Mimi Do you remember our first rendezvous behind the Convent House, alone together in the cloister? Here Carlo kissed Mimi. I saw you once more, just as you had been, wearing a pretty lilac dress. Fui io che scrissi: I wrote, Twelve February, nineteen hundred. Here Charley kissed Mary.

I think it might have been the chance of rhyming Mary whimsically with a Romanesco word in the original, jeri yesterday , which first inclined me toward the English names. Also I was fascinated by how, in this poem about the passage of time, the poet had handled words that marked off time: What difference did the month make when everybody knows that given the right weather in Rome, the noonday sun can glitter as brightly in February as in May?

Trilussa had been Trilussa since he was eighteen. He even signed his name Tri. But he was born Carlo Alberto Salustri. For a poet who described his poetry and his personality as a series of masks, this mention of his almost-forgotten well, forgotten by me anyway!

Baby K - Voglio ballare con te (Videoclip) ft. Andrés Dvicio

Also, as the months went by, it dawned on me that February is not May, no more than age is youth or disillusion hope. Carlo, Mimi, and the month of May too were all written back into the poem. While I was at it, I changed Rosa, who had been Rose in the English, back to her original name, but Paul, whose name in Romanesco was Pasquale, stayed Paul to rhyme with the wall on which he had carved his name. Now, I thought the translation was finished, and I submitted it, just as it appears at the beginning of this article, in a volume of translations from Trilussa for the University of Arkansas Press.

One of the outside readers for the University of Arkansas Press, how- ever, going over the manuscript before its publication, did not think the translation of the last line was finished: This is one of those few instances in English where what everybody says is an error and what is correct is pedantic. Paul could have been in love with Rosa in or or even in What difference does it make? I could translate by the numbers. Vistas of alternate endings opened before me. To be systematic, I began with I had scored with my first shot.

The grammar was correct with- out being pompous, the rhyme was perfect, and the line meant pretty much the same as the original: I read the English to myself aloud. The present perfect tense seemed to imply that if only Paul pulled himself together, and did something, he might still come out all right.

Paul was a dead person; I was making him sound like a failure in the business world. I changed the tense. The problem was more than the tense; it was also the too active rhyming verb, done. And do would not do when I got to Carlo could address his fellow lover across the centu- ries instead of merely meditating on his fate. This was more comic than the Romanesco, but not as kind.

In the original, the emotion goes outward; self pity blossoms into sym- pathy. By ending in you rather than me, Carlo seems to be taking not only consolation, but satisfaction in knowing that someone is worse off than he is. Translating a little closer to the origi- nal might help: But there were more numbers. I might try three again, varying the last line: What am I feeling sorry for myself for?

For some reason I was fond of this solution anyway. Maybe the technical flaws gave it a kind of humor in accord with the sardonic Romanesco, but nobody that I showed it to liked it. The even makes perfect sense: But at the end of the sentence, when the sentence could have ended perfectly well without it, even sounds as if the translator stuck it there simply for the rhyme, which he did. Other abstract words, such as predicament or situa- tion or of course state either bring on other associations in conflict with the original or are too vague.

It is late in the poem to be introducing an Arkansas accent, rhym- ing been with ten. Also, it evokes the metaphysical question of whether Paul, having died, is now experiencing Purgatory or worse, a question that has no place in this poem. I wrote more, with rhymes for fourteen, fifteen, sixteen There must be better endings, but mine get worse. But did my language sound conversational enough throughout the poem? Ma io ero innamorato del Provenzale.

Il punto interrogativo era comunque questo: Io sono passato attraverso questi cicli, e ne scrissi. Le lingue di queste poesie sono state esplorate, controllate e comparate prima di essere state tradotte Poesia provenzale in dialetto molisano e lingua. Cosmo Iannone Editore, Isernia La similitudine allegorica mi risporta al traduttore-esegeta.

Vedi anche Annalisa Buonocore. Dialettali e Neo dialettali in Inglese. Prefazione di Cosma Siani. Edizioni Cofine, Roma, Born in in Santarcangelo di Romagna, Raffaello Baldini pub- lished six poetry collections, all written in the romagnolo dialect of Italian: Intercity, was published by Einaudi in Baldini wrote three theatrical mono- logues: Carta canta, Zitti tutti!

There are no further allegorical, liturgical or philosophical significances to this con-credendo, with prefix? They do not accompany him up onto the stage to confront the huckster-performer wearing the shabby jacket? After fleeing the lower levels of the theater that has flooded with water, the narrator climbs flight-of-stairs after flight-of-stairs, opens door after door, and meets a card-reader with cards all laid out on a table; is this card-reader a man or a woman?

The translator wants to get this exactly right. How can I explain it? He was in great pain. Each word cost him. Not a small plate. Not a huge plate. Is this an evocation of a particular line of po- etry? The verb tenses must be changed: His most recent collection was awarded the Campana Prize. Solitude, Outsider, Small Talk. Each poem moves towards and resists Death. His narrators also wander into anacoluthon, that is to say ending a sentence with a different structure from that with which it began. His poems employ the rhetorical techniques that form the backbone of argu- ment: The rhetorical techniques of argument are defined in this way: The translator read it late one night, intending to phone the next day to ask if it was possible to get a copy of the music.

There was a message on the answering machine. The translator was feeding paper into a printer, catching yet more errors. Cartridge out of ink. A computer talking back: White stacks on floor, packages prepared for release to known addressees to reach the unknown interlocutor. The window was open in Milan. Here it is, he said. I go ahead and just let him say it: This is an order! Do you need glasses? I was soaked, a faucet? Damn, could he have hypnotized me too? Small Talk I had bad dreams all night, all these snakes, how did you make this coffee? I was just about do go down to see you, and so have you finished the skirt?

I say that, what are they racking their brains about? He is cur- rently on the faculty at Bennington College, where he teaches Italian literature. He also works as a writer of Italian films for DVD release. The main reason is translation. The English in the translation of the novel regularly tends to- wards the very linguistic medietas Gadda takes every possible step to avoid.

It also offers extensive com- mentary in the form of linear notes. The importance of the linguistic elaboration, indisputable in Gadda, are of primary concern to the translator. Much effort is being made in the present version to preserve the diatypes lexical variety of the original, where possible. Given the impossibility of translating into another language the aura parlativa peculiar to an environment, the translator must, however, try to conserve, in some way, the heterogeneity of registers that the introduction of colloquialisms and dialects represents.

This new translation is a small part of the renewed understanding of this great literary work. Synopsis In Fascist Rome the novel takes place in , the young police in- spector Francesco Ingravallo called don Ciccio for short , a detective-phi- losopher from the southern Italian region of Molise, is called on to investi- gate a jewel theft that has taken place in an apartment building at , Via Merulana.

In the building lives a couple, Remo and Liliana Balducci, friends of Ingravallo: Three days after the robbery, whose investigation is so far inconclusive, Ingravallo is shocked by the news that Signora Balducci has been found murdered in her home. He rushes to the scene and takes part in the preliminary inquiry, wondering whether there is any link between the two crimes. It also abounds indirectly, via remembered citations from others in speech from the mur- dered Liliana Balducci — an anomaly in a novel where the Signora is central, though largely silent.

Ceccherelli, backed by the other two, corroborated down to the last detail both the order received by the poor Signora, more than two months before, and the sundry phases of the readying of the fob: In all honesty, I just focus on doing my job, as above board as possible. Anyway just to be on the safe side, I chucked it right in this special drawer here I got for that stuff, just right as soon as I got it pried out of the setting with the pliers, without even laying a pinky on it, like. The pliers I ran over to the barber to have disinfected with alcohol: E come un cappone in mezzo a tanti galli!

Il ciondolo doveva consegnarlo a Giuliano in persona.

Night Flight (with apologies to De Saint-Exupery)

Il cassiere—capo ragionier Del Bo conosceva Liliana: Like a capon in the middle of a bunch of roosters! The one you estimated at two thousand lire? I want to give that one away as a present. The one you figured was worth nine and a half thousand? You know to whom I mean! Liliana herself had insisted on explaining everything to Amaldi: Ceccherelli traced with the nail of his little finger the clean contour of the stone, green, seal mounted, that is to say slightly overhanging the setting, and backed with a thin gold plate, in order to hide and encase the uncut face.

Easier said than done. But after those three depositions in his defense by the three jewelers, that were middling enough, there was the one, better still, by the head teller of the bank: According to the bank balance on the savings account passbooks , it turned out that Liliana had withdrawn the ten thousand lire there, just on January Del Bo, the head teller, knew Liliana: Oh yes, he remembered it like yesterday: Una bella signora come lei. Domenica 20, nella mattinata, ulteriori indicazioni del Balducci ai due funzionari: Ed ecco il dente.

In dieci anni de matrimo- nio, a momenti, che, che! I medici aveveno parlato chiaro: Nice little smell, just take a whiff. Fresh from the Mint. I practically played the part of mother when he was a baby. The table, in fact, overflowed onto the shelves, and from there to the cabinets: All smoky and stifling, the charming Cacco atmosphere, in a syn- cretic little fragrance sort of like a barracks or the upper gallery of the Teatro Jovinelli: Beat the tower of Babel on a shopping day.

In ten years of marriage, almost, not even a token: The doctors had laid it on the line: So that out of those ongoing disappointments, those ten years, or nearly, where the pain, the humiliation, desperation and tears had put down roots; from those use- less years of her beauty those sighs dated, those ahs, those long glances at every woman, not to mention the ones with a baby in the oven!

Er maschietto nostro de quattro chili: Avemo preso li passi avanti Ragguagli e rapporti di subalterni, parole e carta scritta: She looked at the girls; returned, in a flash as by deep-felt, despondent signal, the bold glances of young men: The pure assent of a fraternal soul: But out of the dark manger the years stampeded, one after the other, into nothingness.

That mania… for forking out double bed-sheets to the maids, insisting on putting up dowries, push- ing folks who asked for nothing better to tie the knot: Ate her heart out: Our eight pound kiddo, two pounds a month. The bride, poor kid, comes in with her guy, preceded by a belly like a hot air balloon at the fireworks at San Giovanni. Naturally they were a little embarrassed. I say to them, laughing: It was at this point, his face ashen, that Ingravallo begged leave to shove off: Reports and memoranda from subordinates, voiced or in writing: Femmine tutte, e nel ricordo e nella speranza, e nel pallore duro o ostinato della reticenza e nella porpora del non—confiteor: Roberto De Lucca shoulders sagging, with a bearing that seemed tired, absorbed.

He saw him pull a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, engrossed in unknown cares. The door closed behind him. Even that notion of wanting to die if no kid came: And now from the talk of the husband, made garrulous by hardship, by his sense of being at the center of attention and collective commiseration A hunter, he was! Saw himself tramping in with a bagged hare, shouldering his gun, muddied boots, panting hounds , needing to get it off his chest after the blow: Buttafavi and Alda Pernetti stairway A , whose brother counted for an extra six.

gran s odd clock Manual

Females all, demon- strating that widespread sensitiveness, in consequence: Females all, both in memory and hope, and in the hard, stubborn pallor of their reticence and the purple of the non-confiteor which dottor Fumi, those days, was soliciting them to recall in detail, with the courtesy and tact which set him apart during the whole of a long and busy career the just reward of which, today, is his nomination to the position of sub-prefect of Lucunaro, adnuente Gasparo: His latest book of translations is From Adam to Adam: Giorgio Roberti Poet, essayist, translator, editor, founder and presi- dent for thirty years of the Centro Romanesco Trilussa, Giorgio Roberti energetically promoted Romanesco language, culture and poetry.

His translation into Romanesco of Er Vangelo seconno S. Marco has been much praised and often reprinted. Note on translation G. Belli, writing sonnets in Romanesco in the early nineteenth cen- tury, gave an example for Italian poets with his sonnets that showed how dialect could convey the energy of conversation more effectively than stan- dard language. We translators of dialect into English in the United States do not have dialects to convey that energy precisely, so we try to make our verse sound like people talking.

This would seem impossible for A Stick in the Eye, a story over twenty-seven centuries old, but Roberti helps with his deft details and his sudden shifts of style, and makes translating his poem a pleasure, though difficult. You call your country Greater Greece, because you dine on greater grease I guess--and stronger wine! Tell me what your name is. Anyone will swear I am. But are you single? Do you have a wife? Hitched to the single life. Then the poor fool fell, fell like a stone, like a bull with his throat cut in the Colosseum at a festival.

Some promised they were able to slip him a little gift beneath the table; and others talked about friends in high places. Like it or like it not, when all talk ended, all that the lottery threw up were four pathetic bastards no one ever protected. E mentre Lui strillava la natura diventava rugosa e penzierosa: Chi te fa piagne come un regazzino?

Nessuno che me leva, sarvognuno, tutto er punto de vista personale Furious, frantic, fast, Ulysses struck it deeper and turned it like a merry-go-round. At once that moribund volcano hurled forth great eye fragments and little wads of jell out of his monster brain. He yelled a yell enough to raise goose pimples on the world. As he was screaming, Mother Nature frowned, wrinkling her great face, and started to stir and raised up mountains from the level ground.

Beholding earth beneath them relandscaped, many a luminous, uneasy star turned into a comet and escaped. Are you all right? Why have you pulled your cave door shut and hid yourself away from us and out of sight? No One, god damn it! Then, hey, shut the fuck up and quit your belly aching.

E le stelle me dicheno: He has published two po- etry chapbooks: His poetry has been included in numerous anthologies and published in local, regional and national magazines and newspapers. His principal works include: Note on translation The dialect I have translated is referred to by local people as Lancianese, that is the language of Lanciano, a city of 30, inhabitants in Abruzzo.

Although people familiar with Abruzzese dialects in general have proved helpful, at times I needed to consult with people who grew up in Lanciano in order to obtain the full flavor of a particular word or expression. Lancianese, like all languages, has evolved over time. Some words and expressions are now extinct.

Only go backwards or even better stay nailed to the spot where you find yourself! Love and song My love, I would compose for you a song one of those hammered and forged in fire, polished the way it should be and blended with notes that are shiny and passionate. I speak and afterwards you speak And what do we say? My Life My life: A sky that often has a hole that at certain times makes like a small window: A wind that, sometimes, if it stops leaves the dry leaves by my feet; What do you find that is good? Of a rose the only thing that you can pick up is a leaf!

A brooklet, even that at times, leaves the stains of melancholy and goes, without getting dirty with mud, singing all by itself along the way. The Song To those who no longer sing, the spirit of life is tasteless To those who sing more, the voice of the heart gets more flavor Concetta I Concetta, your petticoat is too hot swinging every which way as you walk!

Cuncette, nche ssu passe vacce piane: Lanciane Bande e campane! Concetta, step more softly as you go: Concetta, my God, why are you running? Take it easy as you walk or the folds of your dress will not fall right! Lanciano Bands and bells! Here is my dear Lanciano exactly the way it is. Snow All ruffled and with those tiny eyes soaked through and through, that wee bitty sparrow under that snowfall, wretched little thing, looked up at the sky and gave out a cry. He looked for pity from saints and angels at least to keep the snow off of the roof?

Bagpipes Snow falls and I hear the sound of footsteps; it is really him, it is the piper that, when I was a kid, just seeing him for me was a good time beyond compare! But how goes it, if one -- is the bagpipe and the other one -- is the song one sings why, why, do the oncoming years go by more than the festival shines through my tears? He has published articles on Luzi, Montale, Tobino, and film. His translation focuses on Paolo Ruffilli and Davide Rondoni.

In these ca- pacities, Rondoni has his finger on the pulse of Italian poetry. Three problems present themselves. First, as a translator, I feel humbled and unnecessary: Second, in this lyric unpretentiousness, cultural- linguistic differences arise. How does one reproduce the cadences that follow a rhythm found somewhere between thought and dialogue? How does one translate a word that simultaneously exists as the beginning of a new thought as much as it exists as a continuation of a previous thought?

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Central Park, fine autunno, alberi di seta elettrica e color sangue nel freddo azzurro del cielo che salgono si aprono poi piano che si spengono, ombra che sta venendo, aria che si oscura. Io chiedo a Oonagh: Senti che grida di barche invisibili. Cosa succede in questa poesia? And it starts, the frosty crown of the skyscrapers, to glisten on the more somber throng in the streets. You hear the shouts from invisible boats. In the dark bay.

What is it that happens in this poem? Ripartirai con un lieve turbamento, quasi un ricordo e i silenzi delle scansie di oggetti, dei benzinai, dei loro berretti, sentirai alle tue spalle leggero divenire un canto. Non ho avuto gradoni di pietra su cui disteso perdere sotto il sole il lume della mente, addormentando. My son, my traveler, your hell, your virtue might be your dog-like or angel-like hearing that detects the turning of the planets and a pill falling into a cup two floors below, where two seniors citizens attend to each other. This roaring love will be your father, your real one.

Stop off for a spell in this highway rest-area, from the darkness it will be a pleasure to see you again I had avenues, wide, noisy streets, tall trajectories of by-passes, the open arms of a poor mother veins through which all sorts of things come into the city. I had tree-lined avenues or swift bouts of vertigo between steel walls and tinted glass. But during the night, when night does come, they recast themselves, new avenues shadowy, lonely avenues, when tall streetlamps illuminate them and the latest adverts fade out. Then they move delicately, branching, perhaps the whole city turns on itself; some end at a castle, others at a cathedral, others dissolve beneath the orange lights of a highway junction — the avenues breath in the night with their wide black plane-trees, their subway gates and sad, singsong lullaby sleeping over the children.

E mentre lui cadeva tu bruciavi maternamente. And as he fell you burned maternally. But your arms on the windowsill before turning back to carbon and in a recollection were comets, Brooklyn bridges of love in the night outside of Milan. And I have taken them [from you, lady, leave those arms to this faraway dance, to the music that I and you from two shores in the shadows eternally share. The guy who for the whole trip stares at the sealed bag in front of him, the girl with the dyed hair and a pierced lip who wants to tell her life story to a stranger.

Leggo nella rivista delle Ferrovie: Materia che non crede a se stessa — come questi viaggiatori, nel sonno che ingigantisce i vagoni nella sera. I read in the Railway magazine: Matter that does not believe in its own being — like these travelers, in a slumber that amplifies the train cars in the evening. She was also awarded an NEA in translation. Raffaele Carrieri was born in Taranto, and lived a vaga- bond life in his teens and early twenties.

He was only 15 when he was wounded, a serious injury to his left hand. He went back to Taranto, but after a brief stay, he sailed again around the Mediterranean visiting various ports including those along the coast of Africa. He worked at many jobs to support him- self, and on his return to Italy, worked as tax collector for two years. It was during these two years that he started writing poetry, the poems that were collected in Lamento del gabelliere In he went to Paris where he lived for several years among the poets and painters of the time, and where he started writing articles about his travels.