With all this, what do you hope? what’s the end? Return, as you can see, to the first said. Be useful to me? No, it’s said. Recharge useful to others? It has been said that, if anything, you do not do it on purpose: therefore it is not your end, this. Dilate yourself? Here: if this were your goal, you would close your vision within you, and you would enjoy it between you and me, without the many longings that are there, to communicate the vision to others. Or so?
The gloriola …
O poor child!
Think, or child, how many other things I could do with greater correspondence to this end. To lead an army to fly on the bicycle, everything, or almost everything, better leads to the goal of victory and glory. But let’s say that we can also get “on the wings of the song”. What a misfortune it would be to put yourself in this way, and for you and for me! First of all, it would be a long time. The gloriola wants to borrow offices. I must converse, and by letters and voices, yes to those who cultivate the same fields, and ask them and have news of the effectiveness of a fertilizer that we use, and give them and receive good wishes and congratulations for a good harvest that we hope for. have or have had; yes, with those who profess only to supply seedlings, seeds, chemical fertilizers, agricultural instruments, by hand and by steam. How much study, how much diligence and patience is required for such cultivation! We need to collect all the pieces, as the farmers do, to sow and transplant the many seedlings; also the broken caldani we pick up; even those vases, where the Geva peasant carnation grew. And always stay there to water, to wash, to prune; and peek at the vessels of the neighbor, and hasten that he has bigger poppies and more glaring sunflowers, and throw at him the evil eye, and against the evil eye of him keep a lot of rue, and watch that it does not dry up.
But you will say: Time is collected too! Well: let’s talk about something else. Do not reap, who does not bow. Now, for the gloriola, we bow too much, so humble is often the little plant, and we bow too often, so many are. I mean that our soul (the soul, you mean!) Is deformed, hunched, as is the back of the poor peasants who bow for the wheat. And you must be straight, serene, simple, or my soul! There is perhaps no feeling in the world, not even the greed of gain, which is so much against the poet’s ingenuousness, but this glorious throat, which results in a desire to overwhelm! When you are seized by this disease, you (but you have nothing to do, then), I, I am not looking for the poetic, the good and the beautiful, but the sonante and the dazzling. Oh! I do not look for the lapilli, the niches, the flowers for my street, but I look uneasy, spying on the notebooks of others, perhaps reading on the writer’s shoulders what he writes. Then I stop my verse, and I start to do that of others: like a boring blackbird singing, in this while, not its morning airs of wood, but the retreat: because, if not for the desire of gloriola, in his master and perhaps in him? Or yellow-billed blackbird, you wanted to be too clever! How can you believe that your «I see you!» That resonated between the gourd cader, is worse than this unbearable «Ritìrati, cappellon!»? But it is also true that “blackbird” means cunning and yes the opposite ! Or also, we insist too much on one of our verses or motive or habit or kind, which is once liked: or we can be cloying: it is not enough, we become false. Let’s imitate ourselves, with the glass of a glass, the pure diamond that we once found. And always, thinking or writing, we are distracted by the concern of the effect: what will they say? will I win this or that with this? And your grace, which is not grace if it is not spontaneous, is lost forever. You do not see more right and clear; indeed you do not look anymore; though, what would be worse, do not look, as I said, in others, and do not barter your clothes and perhaps your soul with others, that you see or believe more precious than you!
Do not think of the gloriola, child: it is not for you. She is too difficult or easy to reach. Difficult: I have not already said, how rare it is that you understand? You do not but discover the new in the old. The others, that is, your readers and listeners, should not say or think except: “How true! and I had not thought about it. ” But this assent does not always come to you, not even often. People’s eyes are now so fixed in the navel of their person, who have not seen, you can say, anything else. And because they have the lights veiled by the catalysis of their selfishness, they say you’re dark. You can, when you want, describe one morning, for example, in the country: who has never seen it rise, the sun, neither in the countryside nor in the city, does not understand and does not approve anything of what you say. You are also obscure, often for another reason: because you are clear. Readers are so accustomed today to girandole, to comings and goings, to the clusters of thoughts and feelings; because the authors, drawing on these and those on the books, are designed with stuccos and golds to give them a new look, or do like hares, which, to hide the hunt from their hunters, start to turn and stomp on them; they are the readers so accustomed to the mysteries or the gherminelle of the authors, who, too comfortable, want perpetually to be understood by others better than by their reasons; that when you say your simple things in your simple way, here they do not understand you anymore. They seek in you what is not there, and because they do not find it, they remain bad. And if they also understand you, that is to say if they understand that you do not want to say anything but what you say, and do not imply anything, and you do not have the pretense, absurd and common, that the sense, in your things, the readers put it, then the most do not appreciate you. To most it seems that the beauty is in the friezes and that the poetic is in the oratory foga. And finally, almost everyone, how do you want them to listen to the rustling of leaves or the gurgling of the stream or the song of the nightingale or the sound of your oats, if there near the village band deafening the countryside with trombones and big shots cash desk?
No no, child. Glory or glorious is formed with the assent of many, and you are not heard, listened to, approved, by the few. It is true that you turn to everyone, but remember: not to men, but to children, like you, who are in men. Now these children, given that in no one, however, few people listen. And do you know what these few are? They are generally poets. That is, their child or you can hear just because it also sings and wants to know if you sing better or worse than him, or standoti to hear ends up singing too. What’s up? It happens that one day or another begins to make your way. First it makes only a few notes, then some jokes, finally all your song. So? Then he becomes your imitator. Well? Well, the imitator is a debtor; and the debtor, sooner or later, will speak badly of the creditor. And so, even those few, many will escape from saying your praises, to assure them. And your glorious one will not be born or it will affect newborn.
But then would you feel like accepting it as a glorious lord? You know how she was born. It is born in general from your affirmation. It is the very right thought of our Leopardi: “The most direct way of acquiring fame is to affirm with certainty and pertinacity, and in as many ways as it is possible to have bought it”. And elsewhere: “Rara is generally praised in our century generally, whose praises are not begun from his own mouth … Who wants to rise up, although by virtue true, give way to modesty”. And you, child, would you like me to cry out your praises or affirm your fame from a chair or a stage? “This boy is a miraculous boy … known all over the world …”. In this way the gloriola would be easy. But you do not, you would not want to. Yet men will never believe that a merit is great that is not so great as to even win the modesty of the one who has it. If your modesty is great, be content with a very modest size. You will be considered a mediocre poet, and since mediocre does not have to be the poet, you will be proclaimed not a poet. Or you, not believing the bitter consideration of Leopardi, will you wait for your praise to start from the mouths of others? Because this praise is such as to create you a real fame, it is necessary that it can spread for a great number of people; who will praise you then without knowing you, without having heard you, without having read you! They will praise you for “suggestion”. Oh! the bad fact that it would be yours! Everything you do, would be equally praised: what you felt you had done better would be equalized to what you knew you had done worse. Even what I had not done, but appeared with your name, would have risen to the stars, and so preferred to those that you had made and believed good and beautiful! And what would you do with this glorious one?
All the more so since you have to see from that initial praise came to you, that started all those other praises. From which? From something more apt than the others to blind, to inebregate, to make people ravish. From politics, for example: from the party or the sect. Badaci, boy. It is the fact of someone who wants to get popularity, putting cinnamon in a barrel, and everyone drinks. The big barrel is politics, the wine that everyone drinks, is the feeling that is heated to the barrel: the general hangover is your glory!
O gloriola unworthy of your desire! And then it’s bitter. You know we are at the time of competitions; at the time of the classifications and awards. The greatest fun for men is to judge. In Athens it was in other times a similar mania of seder in the Eliea and to lay down its little stones. Today there is not only a few fools, but many; and do not judge, in the absence of anything else, the dogs and cats of the house, but the writers and the poets of the house and outside. They judge, and they classify: this is the first, that the second, the other the third, and it goes saying. Alas! you, boy, make your speech, express your feeling, expose your thoughts, show your smile, pour your tears, without looking back, without knowing it, you can say, without because; to the first come, venting the heart, almost out of you: through your words, to your laughter, to your tears, here you feel that your listener takes notes, weighs the sentences you say, draws, with the thumb, in the air the line of your smile, examine the water and the crystal of your tears: and murmurs: «There’s no harm! Benin! Well! Very well! Worse, however, of this! Even better than this other! First! Second! Third! Greater poet! Lesser poet! ” Of course you, if you are not a vanarello or a frignone, erase the smile, repress the tear, and go away. Maybe you swear at that moment not to go to others, and enjoy or cry among you, another time. But you are a child, and you always come back from the beginning, however, finding every time that there is no place for children in this world! The fact is that, besides the boredom of that feeling you always compared, as if you were doing a scholastic exercise, you can also feel the bitterness of being postponed, with rude or malicious judgment, and even of being in charge, such that you you do not even dream of emulating yourself, to those you did not even think of, to whom you ought not, you could not think, absorbed as you were in your pleasure or in your pain. They will compare you with others and also with yourself. You will count years and wrinkles in your eyes and white hair and can not wait to tell you that decades, that you stink, that you die. Nice charity! And one day they’ll throw you in a song, forgetting about you, and wrongly. Wrongly always, because what you have done is not to be annulled by what is then good; and because a portent can never be born such as to make Leopardi forget, for example. Whether the poet who adds himself to the canon is as big as he wants, he must sit on a chair, or wanna say throne, alone: he does not need two or all, and that another or all the others will stand up and go away. .
Gloriola is not for you, child! Pure poetry, when one reads, makes the reader say: How one could do better and more! It is true that this is an illusion of an ornatist … And I think of the blossoming panforti which are so much more beautiful, and they contemplate this way for a long time: but at last the ornaments are thrown away and the panforte is eaten alone. However, remembered, also because of this childlike example of the florid gilded, which is generally admired and praises what is above, not what is below.
Remember that true poetry makes the heart beat, if ever, never hands.
So … But I mean. You do not aspire to the gloriola but to the glory; and so distinguish, as if the gloriola were among the living, and the glory after death. I do not want to tell you (your illusions are dear to me), I do not want to tell you that after death we will not hear anything, what is said about us. I will hear or at least hear: do not get angry. But will you hear beautiful things? Here is the point. First of all: will they say anything? We are in a hurry, in our days, to live; and visits to the camposanti waste time. We are deafened, in our days, with our life: and it is not possible to hear the light screeching of the shadows. The dead, in our days, no longer count. A poet said that the day of death was the day of praise; but the saying, a few years after it was said, was no longer true; and Prati himself knows, if something is known in the sepulcher! And this oblivion which immediately presses the dead is not, as far as the literati are concerned, without reason and without justice. We literati want to live in the world of us too much. If we were in our corner, if we did not move so much in the middle of the people, if we did not shout so much, this fee of silence would not come after death. So, will they say anything about you? And if ever, will they say good and right? Or do you think that then the mania of classification, the artifice of suggestion, the blindness of the party or sect will cease? See: often the dead are disturbed in their rest, and stretch out to give them to the living. Very often. Envy you know in what form you practice mostly. You give to one the due praise in the presence of someone. These confirm short: then long you turn to praise another, which may be lower or higher than your praised one, but that almost always is dead. Now you, child, would you like to be buried for this purpose? As you will be a shadow, would you like to be used to give shade to some good steady child, who live and sing? You would not like this: better to sleep forgotten. It is better to be dead, than to continue to appear before the courts and be judged and classified: all the more, that the judges are transmitted, cursors who are eternally still, the torches of their judgments.
You do not want judgments: you want emotion, you want assent, you want love; and not for you, but for your poetry. Well, dead if you are, if your voice was pure, if it was the voice of the soul and of things, not the echo, or dimmer or stronger, of another’s voice; well, this voice will be inadvertent, when it is not forgotten. In truth, if it is often repeated, as perhaps it is right, it will melt, over time, I do not know if in the silence or noise surrounding: like the chirping of the swallows under your eaves, that when it is a piece you hear it, do not you hear it more …
Do you want to talk? Wait: I have not finished.
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In any case why should it be otherwise? What do you really do that is worthy of praise and glory? You laugh, you cry: what do I deserve in this? If you believe you have merit, it is a sign that you laugh and cry on purpose: if you do it on purpose, your poetry is not: if it is not poetry, you have no right to praise. You discover, it has been said; not invents: and what you discover, there was before you and there will be without you. Would you like to write your name on us? Do you adore, that they want to judge you and also reward for what is nothing but your nature and your manifestation of life, what does it matter to you of the name? …
– The child –
The name? the name? The soul I sow,
what is white inside my little boy,
that on earth, you lose,
but the beautiful green tree is born.
I do not laurel and bronze I want; but live:
and life is the blood, a river that floats
what a beat, just, of the heart.
In my heart, I want, my palpitation remains,
certainly boasting that one of a shiver
that trembles on the water,
it is the stone that basically lay in it.
In the air, I want, my moan remains:
if the landline groans I want to be
among the salci del rio
me too, in the darkness, me too.
If the bells cry, they cry
I in the opaque evenings invisible
I want to be next
of that crying at that cry.
I do not want to; still, a lot: turn on
I light the lamp on the tombs
that irradiate and comfort
the vigil of the poor dead.
I want everything; though, nothing: to add
a point to the Milky Way worlds,
in the infinite sky;
give new sweetness to the wailing.
I want my life to leave, pendula,
at each stem, above each petal,
like a dew
that you get out of sleep, and fall back
in our short dawn. With the irises
a thousand of his in the single sun
it is annulled and sublimated …
leaving more life than before.
Well! So I summarize, as a serious man I am. Poetry, for what is poetry itself, without being moral, civil, patriotic, social poetry, benefits from morality, civilization, country, society. The poet must not have, has no other end (not of wealth, not of glory or glory) than that of reconquering himself in nature, whence he came forth, leaving in it an accent, a ray, a new, eternal, his palpitation. The poets have embellished the eyes, the memory, the thought of men, the earth, the sea, the sky, love, pain, life; and men do not know their name. What the names they say and boast are, always or almost always, of epigones, of ingenious repeaters, of elegant cleansers, when they are not names without subject. When true poetry flourished, that, I mean, that is found, not made, discovered, not invented; he paid attention to poetry and did not look at the poet; if he was old or young, handsome or ugly, bald or scalp, fat or thin: where he was born, as he grew up, when he died. Such trifles about the life of the poet began to tell to study to investigate, when the poet himself wanted to recall the attention and admiration that is due only to poetry. And it was bad. And evil grows more and more. The poets of our times seem to look for the vanity that is their person, instead of the gems I have said. Those first ones do not. And you, child, would do what those first did, with the compensation that those first had; I think it is a great reward, because, although not mentioned, true poets live in things which, for us, they did.
Is that so?