Lettera: Finale Ligure, 22 Settembre 2007

please, put on the 5th symphony by L. Van Beethoven before reading this mail


Good evening my dear,

I was too silent in these last days, but it’s not absolutely your fault this time. I didn’t feel good. I mostly stayed alone, just reading, writing, looking after the film I have to finish within November. I didn’t want to write to you about my moods, while being still trapped in. This is not any piece of news from me, is this?
Now I think you deserve an explanation. So, here it is.
It all started one night: I woke up to drink a glass of water and heard some noise from the upstairs flat, that of my parents. You know, they’re very old and I got worried. I couldn’t go back to my bed till all was quiet again, but I couldn’t actually sleep any longer then. I started thinking of them as two young people and thinking of their never visiting New York (they never did and they will not), and all the many things they did and they’ll not do again. I tortured my heart in every detail: so many times in my life I discovered that something that happened was for the last time, but when I did it was already too late. This all moved a series of other memories in me, mostly painful things and I could feel only injustices everywhere ever since.
I sometimes glance at myself and see a one bough tree blossomed out, in a flat field, with no other trees all around to speak to and Autumn comes and then Winter comes and the one bough is wrenched across cold blasts and the leaves are not safe. Is it all I have now or what is left? So I was sad. And whenever I’m sad that way, it happens that I write in a freedom and beauty visits me and lifts me again and upper and upper.
I am no longer in that mood now. Last night I wanted to write to you, but I also somehow expected you to do it for first. I needed it. It would be important to me after such a time.
Some days ago I was asked: « Is there something else amazing you, apart from Literature? ». Oh, these words were said in a kind, affectionate way, but I had to answer all of the same truly: « Nothing but Art. Is that sad indeed? »
I spent most of the summer in the woods, across overgrown fields. I met wild animals, insects, trees, rivers, stones, water pods, fireflies in the fog and the music we’re listening together tonight – the 5th symphony – is the one accompanying me across the summer days. The most beautiful eyes I have seen for months are those of a fox, at the corner of a muddy path at night, surprised to bump into a man walking there time by time. She was wonderful. I did understand what to be in the woods means and whenever I turned back to the crowd, I just found myself alone, without anyone to speak to, anyone whose voice could speak a word. That was my real raft of the dead, not the reading.
On a late August night, I went to a piano concert in the cloister of Santa Caterina. A German pianist, like in some Diavoli’s biography, played amazing works by César Franck. I was impressed by her, and I got much more impressed when I heard her name and discovered she was the same jazz pianist I was many times about to get to know in Germany and never could. I waited for her after the concert and went to meet her finally. She was quite surprise to meet someone from Italy who knew everything about her life, her records and so on. We spoke for one hour almost about music, poetry, painting. She promised we would keep in touch. I wrote to her a few times already but she has never answered me. It happens so often that artists do not want to have so much to do with one another, and this is sad indeed, because whom else can we speak to then? Just the trees, the stones, the silent creatures of the woods, you see? They’re the ones respectful to us.
About “the rich and the bitch” you wrote to me about once: this is the fake love in the age of petrols. I have enough of being the fairy tales teller to those who pretend to be a child when they’re just unbearably childish.
Let’s rent a lighthouse, you and I – though confused, though we do not know much about love yet – and let us go there with all our books, paintings, music instruments, and stay. I’m not going to live there alone again. I could then sometimes answer certain question differently: « There’s someone awaiting me besides art… »

Tuo Federico



13 thoughts on “Lettera: Finale Ligure, 22 Settembre 2007

  1. Yes, on some days things may turn to a darker side.
    I hope you will soon be allowed to watch my “mur-mur” short-film. I will publish it online on YouTube as soon as possible. I have worked on it for weeks…


  2. Eh, ti ringrazio, ma non merito ovazioni: da una stanza in cui si facesse troppo chiasso uscirei comunque, sia per i fischi, sia per gli applausi, non farei grande differenza per ritirarmi in un quadrato di bosco, con le piante, l’erba, i gusci d’acqua, le volpi ad ascoltare le dita sopra un pianoforte. L’augurio che mi faccio è di riuscirvi davvero, un giorno…


  3. Siccome anche io sono un animale asociale, ho pensato bene di chiudere foglidiparole e di ritirarmi nelle mie stanze. Per ora sono avara anche nei commenti, ma dopo aver esplorato e letto parte del tuo blog, lasciami dire che meriti ovazioni per lunghi interminabili minuti.

    a ben rileggerti, qui, nel tuo regno.


  4. Ti ringrazio di questa visita….
    Ho solo eliminato gli altri tuoi due messaggi di “prove tecniche”, lasciando questi, per non creare confusione in chi si troverà a passare di qui.
    Non ho scritto per mesi sul tuo blog, ma, come vedi, difficilmente ormai prendo parte a scritture collettive: preferisco l’atmosfera ritirata delle mie stanze, dove sono più tranquillo. Non amo molto le correnti ascensionali/discensionali che i flussi rapidi inevitabilmente contengono.
    Metterò il link alla tua pagina su “Dialoghi muti” in modo da poterla raggiungere più facilmente e leggerti.
    Un caro saluto


  5. leggerò con molta attenzione questa lettera: passo spesso da qui. ora devo uscire, ma ti volevo lasciare un segno (caro) – (vorrei ricevere, come poetessa, una lettera da te: ma sì, mi rendo conto che pecco di presunzione, solo all’idea che la mia sia poesia): sei un autore inimitabile! ed io ‘stasere straparlo.

    saluto, :-)
    swan (nadine)


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