Lettera: Finale Ligure, 23 Dicembre 2007


My dear,

what to say more about my last week? It’s all within a precise, inalterable process, as ever: literature, music, loneliness and that quick bite of tenderness which words only can soothe.
Like under the dark of some extinguished oil-lamp, these tips, whitest winter buds dance in a fall as I walk, exactly from the boughs down on to the cleared ground beneath. All goes to a flat geometry, a rest: tears and relics. And so we wait for another season, without it coming earlier.
Today I’ve also had a “second lunch” with a friend. We wanted to stay longer at the table and speak, after such a long time we had not met, but it was already too late and he had to leave again. My dear, yet I have heard him enough speak about so many shrinking aches, far beyond the matter of the facts, the matter of art itself. It was all readily “life”. But I sometimes forget that this all belongs to art too and that pureness does not belong to it as yet. I’ve come back home all pervaded by some deep need of truth and thus such a balm to have found this short, unexpected writing from you! How many other times do I have to repeat that our naïve friendship has got far more precious after our last misunderstandings?
There’s a poem – you’ll read it once I have translated it into English – in which I hint at a youngest girl whose body slowly gets empty, uninhabited, after watching for the first time a dove fly out of a hole in a wall, maybe its nest. These few verses are indeed part of a much longer text (“The black poem”) and they have moved my heart as they seem to be imbued with childish candour.
I will be staying here at home till the next Thursday, then I travel to Germany: München and Frankfurt this time. Please, feel free to write to me on my handy whenever you like.
Well, that seems to be all by now. But you should perhaps have a look at my table first: as many books of poems there as many flowers in spring meadows and you can believe me when I say that paper has as much scent as that.
I’m going back to my dark living room, listening to violin and orchestra concerts on a music cd. The air is warm and the sweet fragrance of candles silently burns just as you would like it as well, I guess.
I wish you could play for me now your beloved Ciurlionis (“Preliudas e-moll, VL 108”) and my beloved Satie (“Gnosiennes”).
Will it ever come that day, one day?

I embrace you
tuo, Federico



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