Luci nelle tenebre (Narrativa) (Italian Edition)

His texts in Italian have come out in Eleusis, Varia, D. From what wound do we come, weak wayfarers? There is the whole globe of the earth over our blankets, our cities are under the lead tent. Vedo le donne nude come vetro roteare in danze funebri.

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Ci ammazziamo nel silenzio, odo candele livide nello specchio. The cold covers me with ice and in love you are my isolated lodging. In the forest the sparrows crash into me the wind and the storm crash into me but your face was beautiful in the window dust the rooms are white, the stone is like soap. I wait for your water you arrive where the night writes my silence and my drought. Because museums have bastard padlocks and my years flow into the canals with quiet light for us stone is bread, dagger the water.

I see women naked like glass panes whirling in funereal dances. In the feast of the happy butchers I see naked cities, I see a knife longer than our days, longer than the season of peace. We kill ourselves in silence, I hear livid candles in the mirror. Il tuo viso non lo vedo: From piazza santissima annunziata to the church of san marco the public bus crowns us with its smoke and I under the wall of rain the cry goes on behind the window of the trolley and there is another cry on the sidewalk I see naked cities.

I soldati del mio tormento, inerti, sono fili di vento e di neve Sono queste ombre volanti, questo brivido segreto nel corpo. Oh Eufrate di Nassiriya Nelle foreste, perseguitati dai trattori o dai grappoli dei fiori. The soldiers of my torment, inert, are wisps of wind and snow They are these flying shadows, this secret shiver in the body. They are this overturning in the land of paradise, they are those that slip a sail into the heart of hell. Oh Euphrates of Nassiriya In the forests, pursued by tractors or by bunches of flowers. Ricordi il sale che ancora resta nel tuo bicchiere?

Era questa la strada del riccio, lo stendardo della fame del lamento? Ogni volta tu canti per la gloria: I tuoi alberi erano orecchini con pietre di Gerusalemme: Do you remember the salt that is still left in your glass? Who will save the country then? Who will save the water?

Who will pour the honey on the table or in the tea glasses in the afternoon? And is this then the disappointment of the lesson of the living? And let the call of goodness rise virtuosly after your death, and let it make, in order to not forget, jewels of your dream! Was this the road of the chestnut husk, the banner of hunger of moaning? Every time you sing for glory: I fari del martire e le sue stelle sono le stelle della famiglia, i nostri vestiti sono intessuti della stoffa delle farfalle.

Al mattino cantiamo con il nostro pianto prima degli uccelli dei vicini: That was the affection that lights the wings of water. Sono di ghiaccio le nostre cinture, si estende la nostra terra per ingravidarsi di fuoco. And who among us knows the hour of night? Our belts are of ice, our land spreads to become pregnant with fire. Before they abandon the flesh Un palpito di violenza. A beat of violence. Difficulty in tearing the quiet flash And then what, of an eagle that picks up the tribes of the insult? And what about its severe hostility? Then what will remain among the density of the city the bursting of the dam?

Clouds spring tears towards the eye sockets, towards the suburb, beyond the debris and violence in the dark night. I ignored it and ignore it. All has by now entered this time of history: Pioggia sopra il nostro espatrio. Signore della roccia credono la Morte madre dei nostri figli, la credono signora dei nostri poeti. Rain on our expatriation. Ladies of the rock believe Death mother of our children, believe it to be the lady of our poets.

Now I need a song of love that tells the story that I embrace offering my forgiveness. Neppure fuoco sui confini. Se abbaiasse sul tuo viso il vento Che rotolino i giorni e il tuo rifugio triste! Non ho detto che sono del nostro sangue. Non ho detto che i loro elmi rotondi sono regalo della sera. Non ho detto che una terra proibisce ai suoi figli di entrare in un giardino: Not even fire on the borders.

If the winds were to bark over your face Let the days and your sad refuge roll on! You are following the wheat without wings from sidewalk to exile from paradise to fire or from fire to fire The first day stitched up your whimper, the Bedouin soldiers sewed you only some of them excluded. And you are following the grain without wings from sidewalk to exile from paradise to fire and from fire to fire. Ho strappato la punta delle lancette che scimmiottano le ore della mia morte dalle ombre livide inclinate. E la pianta eretta nella sua crescita incerta somiglia alle nostre mani. Vieni, io costantemente ti chiamo, e la mia luna scioglie il ghiaccio della solitudine.

Muri, eremiti sospesi nella condotta da ruffiani che hanno posto sotto la testa la pietra corrotta della mia mano, le mie mani tremanti nella marcia spettro della poesia. I ripped the point of the hands that mimic the hours of my death from sloping livid shadows. And the standing plant in its uncertain growth resembles our hands. Come, I call you constantly, and my moon melts the ice of solitude. Walls, men lined up and prostitutes standing. Walls, hermits suspended condoned by pimps that have placed under the head the corrupt stone of my hand, my trembling hands in the march specter of poetry.

Nella notte dicendo il grazioso sogno silente, seduta in quarantena. Tu, profeta analogo dal grido soffocante nella gola, lo sguardo fisso sulle porte chiuse spezza le ostinate barriere del cielo. Questo tempo che io ho preso solo per gioco. Nella notte seduta, leggera, le mie mani si allontanano dal sibilo della frusta, e come si trascinano il lucchetto e la catena dietro di me! Quando con un voto alla stella di fronte alla finestra vuota io danzo. Mi getto coraggiosa nella vita. In the night saying the charming silent dream, seated in quarantine.

Ah, but how heavy beats here the stroke of the clock! This time that I took only for a game. In the night seated, light, my hands move away from the hissing of the whip, and how they drag the padlock and the chain behind me!

When with a vow to the star in front of the empty window I dance. My reckless enthusiasm at the beginning of the trip. Ah, this autumn, vain cypress of your four seasons! I throw myself courageously into life. Tu resta, che non manchi la tua ombra dalla mia testa di girasole. Stay, that your shadows will not be absent from my sunflower head. I morti delle diverse ombre dicono: For friendship the tree knocks at the window.

I know when I throw the noose, before the trip, the tree strangles me.

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The tree promised to your skeleton. The dead of different shadows say: And when I wait for death that the condemned from aligned trees know, the command that frees the space is the wind in the air. E la luce tremante, nel tempo del mio sonno, guarda la mia veglia. Avevo gli occhi negli occhi del vino per poterti bere. Ah, my heart, you so soft playmate of the moon with wings bright and dark you delayed the entrance of the moon.

And the light trembling, in the time of my dream, watches my wakefulness. From the tree no sign, all of a sudden the vase of color breaks in the middle of the sky. I had eyes in the eyes of the wine so I could drink you. The measured chalice of my age and the bittersweet slash of a rebellious love. He works in Milan as a professional educator in the area of drug addiction and intercultural affiars.

He is on the editorial board of the online trimonthly of literature of migrationEl Ghibli and contributes to many journals, among which Internazionale, il manifesto and Caposud. His work has appeared in several anthologies of short stories and poetry. You leave a reality, an equilibrium, and enter in a new dimension, thus discovering analogies and differences, light and shadow, new noises, new sounds, new words. Feeling itself generates the need to communicate and make ones own emotions comprehensive for the listener.

Words are thought, emotions just exist. What is really important for me is communication, the possibility to tell and de scribe to others what I am living, without appealing to a bilingual dictionary. On the other hand, in the experience of migration words have the same power of notes: He lives in Trent. Among his published books are: Gianmario Lucini has written about him in Arnold de Vos. Do you ask me why I chose to write in Italian, I did not: I am a small fish not easy to take in, and this is not my home sea.

Distance is reckoned to be the breeding ground of desire, a stimulus to authors. So, I succeded for the first time to write real Italian poetry my migrant voice, born in Holland, was accustomed to the use of the Italian language since , while staying with my Dutch wife as archaeologists in the loneliness of the Tunisian countryside near the Algerian border, and then by myself in Tunis.

Forse ho preso da lui. Ricaduta a distanza di tempo volente o nolente la raccolgo, una forma contorta che mi brucia tra le mani: La mano non data. Maybe I take after him. From the blast furnaces of our silence some residue has flown. Fallen again in due time willingly or unwillingly I pick it up, distorted shape burning my hands: The hand not given. The moth-eaten sweater reveals with delight a body that wrinkles.

Leaning against the front wall the new door is ready: La rosa della rugiada spina la voce che espettora gli struggimenti della notte e la lena della luce che torna. The rose of dew bone chips the voice coughing up nocturnal heartaches and the force of turning light.

Uno si affeziona al male per la bellezza, la vigoria e il rigoglio. One is drawn to sickness because of beauty, vigor and growth. Even water is a gift and I carry the fertilizer which I eat from my garden. What is mine of botanical arts I gladly husband to a lovely plant. And if you have given me eyes to see beware, if it was to poison my life. Sono davanti al tavolo come davanti al muro. La parola mi inchioda, minchia.

Essa ferisce e guarisce, nel mentre la vita va avanti e intristisce. I am in front of the table; as if in front of the wall. It wounds and heals, meanwhile life goes on and gets uglier. Solitudine divina, screzi buio e luce del pensiero. I sette giorni della settimana sono tutti per te: Salvati con il frutto della mente se in previsione non hai il frutto del ventre. Heavenly solitude, you tinge the dark and light of thought. The seven days of the week are entirely for you: They seek refuge where there is no refuge. Fra i due tramonti giorno e notte sgrottano il grande occhio della creazione.

Dawn opens up to hope. Between the two sunsets day and night unwrinkles the great eye of creation. Siamo stati creati, ma non finiti: We have been created but not completed: A varcare stretti clandestini anche se non sappiamo nuotare: To cross clandestine straits even when unable to swim: The ancient tribe of the desert blocked by frontiers, shuttered in cities flies at the height of the skyscraper on carpets woven inside the tent in the image and likeness of the rare heavens of prosperity, God willing.

They shatter on marble pavements already cracked, because the place is in shambles. I would have done better to cloister myself, but what clause is enclosure? Suffering for the beauty of creation is our tribute to the body that we rent. Insieme, e mai insieme. Separati dalla cortina invisibile della convenienza: E lo hai fatto. Together and never together. Divided by the invisible curtain of convenience: A crooked love was born that I pay off in solitude. My love is a basket weave with broken wickerwork everywhere: Composizione per la decomposizione.

The old man stares at his useless clean poems, when cleanliness is no longer desired. Composing for the decomposing. Penso alla mia lontana figura sulla luna che il bosco si riprende. I stagger among the tree trunks, an old bark my feet ambushed by the thick under-bush. I think of my distant image on the moon that the forest reclaims. Dew, what moist carpet you have put down on the mad planet where chipmunks rain down egg-shaped nuts while a church bell invites the spirited mob of this world to come to mass.

He received a degree in Albanian literature at Elbasan and in modern literature from La Sapienza in Rome. In he published in Albania his first collection of poetry, Antologia e shiut Anthology of the Rain , which came out after five years of censorhip with the editor N. Also his second book, Il diario del bosco The Forest Diary , suffered the same fate at the hands of the censors, but this time it was never published. In Hajdari founded with other intellectuals the newspaper Il momento della parola The Moment of the Word , for which he now works as associate editor, writing at the same time for the local daily Republika, and has taught literature in the high school of his city.

In Italy he won several prizes, including the Montale Prize for unpublished works , and the Dario Bellezza prize , and has been included in numerous anthologies, among which Ai confini del verso. Diario in nero Muzungu. A Black Diary, Lecce, Besa Mi senti, tu, terra mia incurvata? In questa dimora di pioggia un filo sottile ci separa Quelli che ancora restano portano i volti di quelli che partono. Are you listening to me, my curved earth?

In this abode of rain a fine line separates us Those of us who stay wear the faces of those who go away. Procedo nel verde consumato e non porto niente oltre il mio corpo. I make my way through the worn greenery carrying nothing other than my body. I will leave nothing behind! Immobile e forestiera in uno spazio imperfetto, mai ospitale aspettando che il silenzio uniforme della sabbia ti parli del segreto. Immobile and a foreigner in a place imperfect, always inhospitable where you are waiting for the monotonous silence of the sand to speak to you of the secret.

And all around it will go on, the frailty of things the vanishing of poets who connect the earth and heaven. They say that we will die in opposing lands. In Italy since , he lives in Milan where he has cultivated his interests in literature and culture through his involvement in many activities and experiences. For twelve years he traveled throughout Italy giving lessons on African history and culture in a variety of schools, as well as discussing the themes of multi-culturalism.

At the request of School Systems Officials, he has given courses on integration to teachers and, for three years he has taught Italian to foreigners as part of the literacy program sponsored by the city of Milan. He has participated in many national and international conferences, held in some of the most prestigious Italian universities Milan, Rome, Bologna on the topics of immigration, culture and literature.

In he was invited to present a cycle of conferences in the U. Almost every year since he has been involved in research, sponsored by centers for studies, by non governmental agencies, and by local as well as provincial administrations, in the fields mentioned above.

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He has published Io, venditore di elefanti I, Elephant Vendor, in collaboration with Oreste Pivetta, Milan, Garzanti, , which has reached its eighth printing and is being used as a textbook in many schools. That of the vendor is a difficult occupation. Hard, sad, full of humiliations. It has taken some time and a few adventures before I arrived in Milan, where I was an inventor, because I was the one who put up the first small markets in the subway stations with three friends.

By selling we earned enough money to eat and sleep inside. Not always, but often. By selling I also learned Italian. Someone tries to change his job, hoping for a quiet life, to find a house, to reunite a family. There is no shame in it. This is the life of a Senegalese, the life I have known for a time that seems extremely long, but all considered fortunate because, as they say in my country, if you can recount something it means it brought you luck.

A lot of guys rip up their staying permits and return to Senegal, because they have had it with Italy, the police, the carabinieri, the selling, the elephants, the ivory eagles, the necklaces, the Lacoste, the Vuitton purses, the hotel rooms, the expulsion orders, the seizures, the cold.

This cold I will never get used to. Many stay and meet Italian girls. They fall in love. There are marriages, and then even separations and divorces. And then more marriages. E presto, presto, i vostri cavalli, e spronateli a sangue. Suonate le vostre trombe, eccitate e liberate le vostre mute di cani assassini. Cavalcate, gridate, urlate, attaccate, massacrate alle spalle questo sporco negro che ha il torto di assomigliarvi. Urlate a pieni polmoni: And quickly, quickly, your horses, and whip them until they bleed.

Blow your trumpets, stir up and set free your hordes of killer dogs. The nigger hunt is open. Ride, yell, scream, attack, shoot in the back this filthy nigger whose sin is that he looks like you. Justice is done, here in Rwanda. Riempi il tuo cuore di odio prendi il tuo coltello e il tuo manganello. Organizza la tua muta, armala, di fucili, di solide sbarre di ferro, di grosse catene in acciaio temprato.

Brucia i semafori clacsona ai quattro venti Fill your heart with hate take along your knife and your nightstick. Organize your pack, arm them with guns, with solid bars of steel, with thick chains of tempered steel. Step on your cool machine and quickly, quickly ride it at full speed like a damned fool.

Ignore the stoplights blow your horn to the four winds… The hunt for the nigger is on. Get him out in the open, and above all show no pity for this intruding filthy nigger who dares to step on your flowerbeds. A Berlino Indossa i tuoi anfibi, la tua redingote, la tua croce uncinata.

Gott ist mit euch. Fai come a Roma. E vomita il tuo odio, la tua ignoranza e la tua follia, e urla: E non sta mai a casa sua. Fate come a Berlino anche se siete a Parigi. Fate come a Parigi anche se siete a Bruxelles. Milano, Ginevra, anche se siete sul tram, o sul marciapiede. Fate come in Algeria! In Berlin Put on your army boots, your frock coat, your Nazi cross. Et cetera, et cetera… Do as in Rome. But quickly because you could miss the best part of the nigger hunt knife in the back and with no pity this dirty Italian nigger who stinks too much of macaroni and never stays in his own place.

God is with you. Do it as in Berlin even if you are in Paris. Do it as in Paris even if you are in Bruxelles. Milan, Geneva, even if you are on a bus, or on the sidewalk. Do it as in Algeria! Uccidete, uccidete alle spalle. To the Indian because is neither black nor white.

To the Polack because he is too white. To the one from Bosnia because especially he must not be white. To the homosexual… and why not? Shoot, shoot in the back. That is how justice is done. Et hurle et vomi ta haine, ton ignorance et ta folie: Ainsi justice est encore faite! Sonnez vos trombes, excitez et liberez votre meute de chiens tueurs Suonate le trombe e applaudite!

Blow the horns and applause! In his country he has published short stories and poems in opposition journals; he also has contributed to Al Karmil, a monthly journal of culture in Arabic published in Cyprus. Exiled in Italy in as a political refugee, he lived in Rome for an extensive period of time, and worked from to as a correspondent for Al Watan, a Kuwaiti weekly dealing with contemporary Italian literature. He has translated into Arabic: He contributed to the daily il manifesto and he also published a novel, Lontano da Baghdad Far from Baghdad, Rome, Sensibili alle foglie Obviously without my knowledge.

They tell me that among other things there were some writings. The poet in me rebelled and thought: I lacked the spirit and strength. All I could do was to laugh. Thinking about it calmly, I have to be doubly grateful to that doctor and his nurses. They not only treated me, they also unintentionally forced me to face a decisive battle.

An inevitable encounter I had always postponed. It is a vital struggle with language. Slowly, and with difficulty, I rebuilt my memory and wrote the new manuscript. This time in Italian, although still rough. For an exile, it means to tear the baggage of incommunicability. A source of mistrust, isolation, aversion. For the poet and the narrator becoming the mediator of Consciousness. Del blu della notte un fuoco accendiamo.

In the blue of the night we light a fire. There, near the inlet of the river, over the stones, rests the dust of battles; a memory of smoke lights in the heart. O, ships of this morning that have given to the sea that which united the two extremities. At the beginning it had been down there, under a tent of shining grief then, the conflagration raged. Let Sawsan ask the divinity for mercy, following the changes of the seasons and let her steal one from summer to bring it over to us later. Ossessioni trasparenti appesantiscono ora questa aria. Obsessions, transparent, make this air weigh heavy now.

Love that labors beings and non-beings, a sad love that oscillates between hope and prison. In the horrible songs that are my soul, sorrow is song: A labyrinth haunts the prison of this love, a love that unfurls wings of flame like the wheel that moves events. Love has remained paralyzed between passion and patience: My step has swerved from the storm during the halt, I have ordered the harnessing of the horses and with a cry I have filled my throat.

Lottavano contro il terrore della giustizia maltrattandomi nella malasorte sgranando cumuli di sabbia si disperavano, si disperavano They fought against the terror of justice, abusing me in my bad luck husking heaps of sand they dispaired, they dispaired… They will not hold the water between the cracks. Their appointed time was before ours, like the desert of Lot, a crushed summit a land collapsed in the water of a fountain.

My deepest culture is marked by the Guarani language of my native ancestors. That of my origin, that allows me to filter other cultures without fear. I feel a great strength coming from my culture, and the others can only enrich me because they take nothing away, they only add something. I have realized a cultural synthesis, not a symbiosis. Alle due del pomeriggio. After the rest and the remains. Otto mesi a subire la prepotenza dei tuoi muri di pietra ad assordarmi nel tuo silenzio assordante ad annientarmi ad appartenere a te, al tuo spazio io, piccolo piccolissimo Davide in pugno a Golia basta!

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Eight months suffering the Power of your walls of stone growing deaf in your deafening silence, becoming nothing to be yours, in your space, me, small, miniscule, David in the grip of Goliath enough! To scream against the echo of my own screams, kick and punch at you every day, stain myself with my own blood on your walls, lave myself inside with my tears enough! Io stesso ho camminato a lungo per i lunghi corridoi del buio, spesso colpevolmente smarrito in facili labirinti Frutti di cocco appesi alle finestre dello stanzone vuoto di bambini ridenti. Coconut fruit hanging at the windows of the hall void of laughing children.

A guitar plays, melancholic, as a harp slowly strokes its impetuous rivers. Fiori di cocco, a Natale. From inevitable moans of those tortured forever to the shots still distant but drawing closer and closer, and the enlightening words of the new poets: Coconut flowers, for Christmas. People say good-bye, wish good luck: Questo mestiere di vivere rovesciato del tutto verso fuori, in avanti, a momenti parrebbe che mi vuoti che mi dissangui. Sono in ripiego, ma impegnato molto impegnato premeditando un salto. Non saprei dire che non ci sono, ho bisogno di rovesciarmi sulla mia propria urgenza.

This task of living completely overturned, committed outward, always forward, at moments might seem to empty me and drain my blood. I must learn to live not forgetting myself. I must overturn myself in the face of my urgency. Guess who got caught? His poems have appeared in several journals and in the anthologies Ai confini del verso. Then came emigration, and all my essences began the journey toward the exodus, but did not arrive together at their destinations.

Only part of the promised man arrived punctually. Wavering, stumbling like a blind man, there was first the language of life, of present time: But one day the music, reaching its maturity, gained volume again, poetry became again a possible way to communicate, and was reborn elsewhere. The essence is now whole and complete again, it exists fully, it joyfully expresses everything it wants and must express, it therefore became attuned to the century again.

So it was with language; it gained a new voice, with which it will say those indispensable things that existed before the poet and lay silently in wait for the promised voice. Il vento che soffiava dal mare, balsamo per un sole spietato, portava via le parole con le quali tu volevi parlarmi di linfe e di radici. Di tuo padre immobile su una sedia a rotelle: Of your father immobile on a wheel chair: Hunter of men, he brought his Sergeant the severed heads of guerilla soldiers strung by the hair along a pole, like crabs ripped from the bottom of the swamp.

Sei piena di storia, ed io invece sono fuori dal tuo libro: Ma ora devi restituirlo controvoglia tirandolo per il muso al nuovo proprietario. You are wrong, Yolanda you are full of history, and I instead am outside your book: I am the elegant wrapping paper in pastel hues, and I carry your book inside of me elsewhere, far from here, as a gift for other friends that you will never know. I am the old bull that jumped the ocean corral inside your estate and for seven days and seven nights flooded it with seed.

But now you must return him unwillingly pulling him by the muzzle to his new owner. Temo che metteranno niente meno di un oceano tra i due ritagli di me. Yolanda, ti guardo da fuori di te: There is an Araguaia of defeats inside my chest and I do not quite know where they carry my head after they detach it from my body.

I am afraid they will put nothing less than an ocean between the two cuts of me. Yolanda, I watch you from outside of you: Ore montate su una tazza di nebbia. Hours whipped up onto a cup of fog. On the dresser there was a map of Brazil made of foam-rubber where every state was a colored ticket: High up there in the map there was one state isolated where no one goes; I know of no one who has ever set foot there: Un Olimpo umido e inutile per atei e monoteisti come noi.

There are mountains there too tall and deserted always covered by the fog that rises up from the jungle: An humid and useless Olympus for atheists and monotheists like we are. I was looking at the map on the dresser through the tiny hole of the little metal spring in the paper weight. I targeted Guanabara bay and from there I targeted my home. What a strange thought! Ma cosa avrei dovuto fare? Lasciar dormire il frigo tutta la notte con la porta aperta? Since this morning I knew I was on the edge of a cold.

Then it happened that the door to the refrigerator refused to close because there was too much ice in the freezer. I turned it off and let it defrost. I cleaned and dried it and with that the cold hit me as well it wanted to for some time. Well, what should I have done? Let the fridge sleep all night with the door open?

What has the refrigerator to do with the mound of fogs? Yeah well, everything has to do with everything and poetry is everywhere dear friend. Everything has to do with everything. The cold in me is like the water dripping in the shut-off fridge. Everything, even the music that I listen to as I write: It has everything to do with the mound of fogs or with a door that refuses to close.

Yes, because the fact is that everything has to do with everything. As the ass to the pants. As honey with fat, and our path with our calluses. In silenzio ho ringraziato non-so-chi che mi ha permesso di vivere abbastanza per conoscere il mio. There is the desire for big things and the pleasure of the small ones. I saw a film tonight on TV in which a man dies and leaves his lover pregnant with their first child, whom he will never see.

The Eskimos of Alaska, do they also get colds and drink tea? The Eskimos of Alaska can be no less wise than the Yanomami, I think. But who ever said that poetry is worth more than a cup of tea? Even Elliot ran into this doubt before the taking of the toast and tea. And so I also take life. At least I try. Tardy love is the anti-repose it is losing the inspiration, getting scraped in the enjoyment and sand sweating. It is getting torn like a scarecrow it is stinking of garlic and trampling mines. It is drinking it all up and exploding with urine. It is searching the woods for a marine animal. It is stealing from the other what is unwanted: Non posso valutare il risultato di questa mistura singolare.

The Watcher in the Shadows

E se non sono stato quello che si dice felice fu per eccesso di precisione nella coscienza delle cose. All that concerns me decomposes. It is necessary to begin again it is necessary but not possible. This incarnation is lost and maybe there will not be another. It is necessary to trace future origins even if one will not bear them witness. I can not evaluate the result of this singular mixture. And if I was not what they call happy it was for excess of precision in the awareness of things.

Because I knew too much every day while I knew nothing. Sono stanco, solo, e tutte queste cose. I am tired, alone, and all these things.

See a Problem?

The being less exists in the quotidian sandpaper. Inside the being is the being all the physical metaphysical the act of returning to the initial being. Mia madre ha sempre avuto diciassette anni. Sono stato io ad invecchiare al posto suo. My mother has always been seventeen. I was the one who aged in her place. She was never so much my mother, so herself, very beautiful, essential, uncontaminated as she was at seventeen, long before I was born.

My silhouette today, the shadow on the wall, by now makes of me, strangely, the father of my mother at seventeen. Mia madre a diciassette anni. E io, che non ho mai avuto diciassette anni But something of my spark will continue to sparkle in sepia and ivory in the eyes of the girl who grew up so quickly.

And who discovered herself beautiful in the gasping glance of the photographer, in the inverted image of the lens that made the camera a cage for the prettiest and most songful bird he had ever heard. My mother at seventeen. And I, who never was seventeen…. Ho scelto io quella nave improbabile, con la ciurma scomposta che rideva del cordame: La valigia di cartone in disfacimento.

Ogni mio bene bramava un cassetto, uno scaffale dove riposare. E io, peggio di tutti. I myself chose that improbable ship, with the disorderly rabble who laughed at the rigging: I reached the pier homeless. A cardboard suitcase in shambles. Each of my belongings yearned for a drawer, a shelf a place to rest.

They had told me that the best of them learn everything on the water so as never to feel it in their shoes. They learned poorly, though, my companions in misfortune. And I, worst of all. Just one trivial storm, a ripple, and we are in utter confusion. The furnace exploded and in the middle of the darkness that last bonfire warmed our hands. Someone brought the wine, someone else the tambourine, and the company of madmen sang, laughed, with water up to their waists. They knew they were close to knowing that which is not permitted to sailors: Ho capito ancora che avevo scelto per istinto la nave giusta: And so they even had fun masking courage as inexperience.

I understood even more that I had chosen instinctively the right ship: I was alone at the port standing on the pavement, watching those people. He has been in Italy for more than 30 years, living in Rome where, in various sectors of the local government, he works as an intercultural mediator and representative for immigrants from all over the world. It focuses mainly on overcoming obstacles to the multicultural growth of Italian society. Quel maledetto pezzo di carta Stress 1: We have lost the path of wisdom We try to find it again. They say Africans had reached such a degree of civilization that many of them had no other occupation than sitting and thinking.

Who has permitted its destruction? Who is that foreigner that builds great castles of monopolies in which he erases ethnic identities, robbing individuals of space and turning children into human larvae, to become their babysitters? The universe of oral tradition from which it comes knows the word: As there is no universal environment or way of speaking or communication, it would be difficult for a universal writing to exist.

Salutami quel paese che vuole diventare quarta potenza del mondo, tralasciando gli strumenti essenziali dello sviluppo: Italy, that harmonious land, Right and Left in power, Left and Right in opposition. Greet that land for me as it strives to be the fourth most powerful in the world, flaunting the essential tools of development: The river is guiltless. Viene sete andando a Bosa quando scorgi una piccola sorgente che nascendoti davanti agli occhi ti muore tra le mani a qualche passo dal mare.

Yet the whole coast is a jewel because sculpted by Nature. The pond would have been lovely behind the Roman bridge if only some birds had deigned to revive it.

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Thirst comes on the way to Bosa when you glimpse a spring and, born before your eyes, it dies in your hands a few steps from the sea. Having embraced the cause of the Focolare Movement, he lived in various parts of the world, and in particular he spent twelve years in Florence. He died in Lisbon in Halls in the Palazzo Vecchio my land flies in your lines. Florence catches fire in the instant in the light where Ficino saw the soul.

I look at the Baptistry. I am a puer-senex. In the arms of a samba and a maracatu. Sono quella ferita — non ci sono uomini, donne Signore, che sembrano solo piaghe e sangue? Perhaps I am the unhealed wound of the man of light who saw the entire kingdom and was snatched to the third Heaven And then narrated without saying a word of wisdom created and uncreated. I am that wound -— are there not men and women my Lord, who seem to be solely blood and sores?

Nessuna meraviglia per le calli deserte. Se fosse vera la Notte non avrei visto San Marco luce nella luce candelabro. Se fosse vera la Notte il lutto sarebbe eterno la nostalgia di patria e amori sospesa come un grido di infante. Venice wider and more spread out winged ruin of blood. Nothing to marvel about through the deserted streets. If the Night were true I would not have seen St. If the Night were true the immense voice of the Enemy would bring me to the Sacraments as if to water. If the Night were true the true light dark darkness.

Se fosse vera avrei visto in un lampo lacrime nuove accanto al Giudizio nel silenzio del tutto nel silenzio. Se fosse vera la Notte ben diverso il canto e la bocca e il respiro. Se fosse vera se fosse vera il canto e le parole conchiglie di un angelo chiamato Juan. If it were true I would have seen lightning new tears next to the Judgment in the silence of it all in silence. If the Night were true the song would be different and the mouth and the breathing. If it were true if it were true the song and the words seashells of an angel called Juan. Per questo il mio nero sangue guasto doveva ritrovarsi in questa luce poteva contemplare faccia a faccia la trama di un disegno annunciato.

There were hugs and kisses and regrets and a black knifed Christ. Per questo non la lascio e mi ristoro in quel silenzio di ricchezza e abisso. Florence is remembrance and is presence where more is gathered the more one sheds in that loving storytelling Soul that people said Ficino had spoken of. That is why I did not heed my pain nor the memory of struggles or of the Florin I searched for the white in the marble-like green I searched among the saints, the painters, the poets. Florence now emits no smell but who cares as long as the Soul lives?

And when I am off for a stretch of time and return after years or weeks my grieving stops the moment I look at it because I find myself to be one and many in its song. And to think that in you I find my soul black like Africa in its mystery bringing it along every night in hope my soul is bare and dispossessed in the dark wanderings of saudade who stare at you black with fear where is the piazza the howling of the people that forged the dream of the poet the rough and sweet voice of the prophet? Tutto del mio vecchio sguardo si accende. Santa Clara che passa sul baldacchino che quasi non vedo e non rivedo nessun bimbo alato nella processione.

E la saga vive in ognuno che sa la mescolanza di spada luna e croce e non dimentica il grido senza luce. Everything of my ancient gaze is rekindled. And the saga lives on in anyone who knows the mixture of sword moon and cross and does not forget the scream without light. She holds a degree in anthropology and has taught at the University of Buenos Aires from to , year in which she relocated to Italy, in Val di Non Trento. Her poetry has appeared in several anthologies, among which Ai confini del verso. The unpublished collection — Piuttosto? I have been a luxury migrant, with a European passport, a white woman, educated, with resources that have spared me much hardship and pain.

But we carry ourselves where we go. Because every country is both hell and illusion. So I take refuge in literature, trying to find words to tell what has no name. The poetry that gives back adjectives to darkness, that leads me to write my story again, is that of my country, in a welcoming but strange language, that distances the origin of horror from creation, that explores where one belongs and makes the journey of so many destinies.

It is memory that now expresses itself in Italian, but with a completely new musicality. For me poetry remembers everything and lends words to silence. On this side over here to the left? In she graduated from the the School of Dramatic Arts in Stockholm and later pursued specialization courses in Spain and in Denmark. Since she lives and works in Bergamo, where she has been working with Amnesty International, touring through Italy with the theatrical shows Hijos Children , Bambole Dolls and Pachanama Mother Earth , now collected in the volume Poetica e teatro civile Poetics and Civil Theater, Rome, Aracne Facets of that diamond wich reflects your image, your multiple images in this new reality.

My dreanm is one day to have the force to write in a new language made of all these facets: Swedish, Spanish, Italian, Guarany the language of my grand- grand mother and why not also English, the second language in Sweden. A bus ticket, thank you. Where will their small hours we call life end up? One day that man asked me to write a poem about him, the tobacconist. Today I wrote it. See all 4 questions about The Watcher in the Shadows…. Lists with This Book. Francia, verano de La prosa del autor se conserva, asi como sus bellas y bien pensadas descripciones. No debes creer en todo aquello que ves.

Culmina con un un final lleno de amor, un amor eterno que ni siquiera las sombras pudieron apagar. View all 4 comments. Two new Zafons in one year? I think I can give up sex for and be completely satisfied. Though apparently it's been pushed back to for US publication. Good thing I met a nice fella. View all 3 comments. No hay nada, NADA, que yo pueda decir que le haga justicia a esta, o cualquier otra obra del autor, pero lo voy a intentar View all 13 comments. I decided to lower the rating. I always get a great satisfaction out of going into a W.

I saw this book the other week and the blurb took my fancy. I rather liked the idea of: An enigmatic toymaker who lives as a recluse in an old mansion, surrounded by the fantastical beings he has created. An eerie figure that watches from behind the curtains of a locked room. Strange things that flicker through th I decided to lower the rating. Strange things that flicker through the mist from an abandoned lighthouse. A shadowy creature that hides deep in the woods and has already claimed one life.

These are the elements of a mystery that will bind Irene to Ismael during a magical summer in Blue Bay, where her mother becomes housekeeper to the secretive toymaker, Lazarus Jann. There was a childlike element to the book and so I skim read to the end, then returned to the main part of the book and finally abandoned it. View all 12 comments. Nothing else to add that I haven't said below so I'll second my recommendation for this and add my thoughts on the narrator. Jonathan Davis has narrated audio-books of Carlos Ruiz Zafon before and each time he has done very well.

He has a good instinct for voices and the atmosphere of his works. Wish he had narrated 'prisoner of heaven' like with the other two. The story comes alive with his loving for lack of a better word narration. I hope Mister Davis continues to narrate for this author, h Nothing else to add that I haven't said below so I'll second my recommendation for this and add my thoughts on the narrator.

I hope Mister Davis continues to narrate for this author, he and the narrator of Marina are perfect: July 11thth Carlos Ruiz Zafon is one of my favorite writers, the man has a beautiful way of telling a story His books always have me thinking about for days afterwards, even if I'm reading something else.. It sounded intriguing so I snapped it up and took it home This one is my favorite of the lot, so far ;.

An atmospheric, subtly creepy story I was gone from the very first page: You'd be surprised to see how little things have changed since those days. The lighthouse still rises through the haze like a sentry, and the road that runs alongside the Englishman's Beach is now just a faint track snaking through the sand to nowhere. If you remember David's "employer" from that book, you know who I mean. I won't spoil for you his name in the book that he goes by This man has a small but significant part in the book, and he sets in motion consequences that Lazarus Jann doesn't fully understand at the time, not until much later.

Makes me wonder if Mister Zafon had this planned out as this characters first appearance, laying the ground for the Angel's game or was just testing him out. When everything is tied together at the end, a chill ran down my spine and a tingling came in my hands.

I wanted to jump in Cravenmoore and help them but all I could do was bite my lip and try to read faster while not missing a word. The end for one was sad but made sense in the end after I thought about it One final scene Ishmael witnessed broke my heart for Lazarus. The final narration of Irene cleared some things up and ties in with the beginning and leaves you with a smile on your face.

I'll leave you with this quote from the book: They remind me of what the discovery of reading meant to me. I hope they remind you too, regardless of your age. View all 5 comments. Y por eso se merece ese puntaje.!! El autor es un genio!! Una trama impactante, engancha desde la primera frase. Sus personajes no paran de sorprender al lector, a evolucionar y a crecer. O local mostra-se encantador e hospitaleiro. L'ho iniziato senza leggere prima la trama, in questo modo ogni pagina era un passo verso una scoperta nuova.

Dentro ogni essere umano buono o cattivo che sia,si nasconde qualcosa di immensamente odioso. The stories in this young adult series aren't connected at all. They all have a great sense of mystery and fantasy, but one is set in Spain, the other in India, and this one in France. How much better than Prince of Mist this book is! I couldn't put it down. His characters are REAL! REAL I tell you. There's so much emotion in his words I don't know how Ruiz Zafon can keep cranking stories like this one. Easier to relate than The Midnight Palace, this story gives us a glimpse of Andreas Corelli, The stories in this young adult series aren't connected at all.

I love to see the origin of the ideas for Shadow and Angel's Game. I wish I had this book when I was growing up. This author is a magician of words. What a gift he has! This is the third book by this author that I have read and I should have stopped after the first. I feel like I just read a bunch of stuff and have no idea what happened. I think perhaps something has been lost in translation? Shadows and doppelgangers and toymakers and this child's history and that one's and masks and machines.

Lots of broken glass and explosions at the end, and I could clearly envision a movie scene with the automatons burning, but other than that I'm not sure what happened. I This is the third book by this author that I have read and I should have stopped after the first. I'm not sure why Ismael and Irene fell in love except that they were fourteen though in one spot I thought it said 15 and in another I could have sworn I read she was almost I'm not sure what point the whole cave scene had, or why Dorian was there.

It just seemed very disjointed and did not flow from one scene to another, or create any kind of tension. The only creepiness to be had was what I imagined myself when thinking of all the different automatons there could have been. The Prince of Mist was the best of his three that I have read and I don't know that I will be interested in reading any future books by this author.

Fourteen-year-old Irene Sauvelle's family has just moved to the foggy coast of Normandy. There, living on the estate of a reclusive toymaker and inventor, she's immediately enchanted by the beauty of the place and the local wealth of ghost stories. When a young girl is found murdered, her body at the end of a path torn through the woods by a monstrous, inhuman force, Irene begins to wonder: Is there more to the ghost stories than the townspeople let on?