Elio Vittorini (July 23, 1908 - February 12, 1966) was an Italian writer and novelist. He was a contemporary of Cesare Pavese and an influential voice in the modernist school of novel writing. His best-known work is the anti-fascist novel Conversations in Sicily, for which he was jailed when it was published in 1941. The first U.S. edition of the novel, published in 1949, included an introduction from Ernest Hemingway, whose style influenced Vittorini and that novel in particular.
Vittorini was born in Syracuse, Sicily, and throughout his childhood moved around Sicily with his father, a railroad worker. Several times he ran away from home, culminating in his leaving Sicily for good in 1924. For a brief period, he found employment as a construction worker in the Julian March, after which he moved to Florence to work as a type corrector (a line of work he abandoned in 1934 due to lead poisoning). Around 1927 his work began to be published in literary journals. In many cases, separate editions of his novels and short stories from this period, such as The Red Carnation were not published until after World War II, due to fascist censorship. In 1937, he was expelled from the Fascist Party for writing in support of the Republican side in the Spanish Civil War.
In 1939 he moved once again, this time to Milan. An anthology of American literature which he edited was, once more, delayed by censorship. Remaining an outspoken critic of Mussolini's regime, Vittorini was arrested and jailed in 1942. He joined the Italian Communist Party and began taking an active role in the Resistance, which provided the basis for his 1945 novel Men and not Men. Also in 1945, he briefly became the editor of the Italian Communist daily L'Unit脿.
After the war, Vittorini chiefly concentrated on his work as editor, helping publish work by young Italians such as Calvino and Fenoglio. His last major published work of fiction during his lifetime was 1956's Erica and her Sisters. The news of the events of the Hungarian Uprising deeply shook his convictions in Communism and made him decide to largely abandon writing, leaving unfinished work which was to be published in unedited form posthumously. For the remainder of his life, Vittorini continued in his post as an editor. He also ran a candidate on a PSI list. He died in Milan in 1966.
I don't normally read forewords and introductions before starting a book but in this case I did. No reason why, just thought I would for once. And was pleased to learn that both Hemingway and Calvino highly praised this work. So that got the positive vibes going before actually cracking on with the novel itself. And for the most part, It didn't disappoint. Now it's clear why both thought Conversations in Sicily was the business, as not only is it a mighty reminder of the power of modernism, it also serves as a lesson that you don't need fancy show-off Intellectual style prose to pull off an effective novel. The balance of pacing and tone of voice have been so well rendered here that it's possible to not be aware of either.
Elio Vittorini was an Italian communist, and his novel is, within the constraints of the censorship of the period, explicitly political. But the political side is in this instance also a personal one, and the spinning of time brings in his ironies. Vittorini's narrator Silvestro decides on a whim to take a cheap weekend return ticket on the train down from Milan, where he lives and works, to revisit his native Sicily and the mother he has not seen for 15 years. He bumps into various characters on his trip, including two being called whiskers and without whiskers, others being a knife grinder, and a soldier, with each traveller reminding Silvestro in different ways about the character of the land he has left, its customs, and strong rooted beliefs. After travelling through the mountains, and arriving at his mother's village, he takes the walk up the steep steps to her home with a birthday card. And it's here, once the dialogue of mother and son kicks in, where Vittorini really shines. The return to a house unchanged since boyhood creates a dreamlike reality. A merging of his child and adult selves.
Here a conversation bounces back and forth similar to that of a play, and enlarges the present with the past and the past with the present, giving the reader an experience that is vividly new, yet familiar. The dialogue heavy scenes constitute the disaffected heart of the book, and it is very hard to give any adequate sense of their power, rendered in lucid, supple lines of almost Homeric simplicity by Vittorini. This is a novel of knowledge and experience, memory and place, dealing with the loss of the past, and the attempts to recover it through words. Oh, and then there is the wine, bread, oil, herrings, chicory, snails, and melons. It was all making me rather peckish.
Overall I found the narrative both moving and amusing, and picked up on a few little interesting details that I must have missed reading it the first time round.
This was written and published during the fascist era and therefore had to get by the stringent punitive censorship of the time. The irony is the book owes its form and much of its beauty to the imperative of eluding censorship. It wouldn't have been written in this form if not for censorship. A rare case of censorship doing the artist a massive favour. Compelling him to innovate and mask meaning with artful subtlety.
Because of the hugely overshadowing Nazi death camps history has turned into little more than a footnote what Mussolini did in Abyssinia in 1935. When, among other Italian atrocities, the Italian air force sprayed native villages with mustard gas. This book's starting point is probably the deep shame and disgust any decent human being would feel at this cowardly act done in the name of his country. It begins with the line, "That winter I was in the grip of abstract furies. I won't be more specific."
The narrator, on the spur of the moment, decides to visit his mother in Sicily who he hasn't seen for fourteen years. Elio Vittorini has a musical ear and his prose is incantatory with its beautiful refined repetitive rhythms. The journey undertaken by the narrator is as much a journey back in time as through space. His conversations like a dialogue with the deepest part of his being as well as with the land of his birth.
Unfortunately for me the beautiful mysterious spell it was casting fizzled out a bit in the last third when the narrator gets drunk and overly maudlin and then has a conversation with his dead brother. Nevertheless, a magical innovative book which artfully not only overcomes the obstacle of censorship but uses censorship as a kind of forge in which to craft the work.
Sicily was once like Papua New Guinea in this sense: Until the early part of the last century there existed鈥攎ay still exist鈥攚ithin its mountainous interior, an enigmatic ancient culture. This Sicilian culture is rife with superstition, fear of the Evil Eye, and penetrated only superficially by Catholicism. In this sense it reminds me of the primitive villages written about by Carlo Levi in his , but the eerie sense of diconnection from the rest of the world goes even further here. This is one of the most transporting books I have ever read. Every ten pages or so resolve themselves in little narrative paradoxes reminiscent of Zen koans. It's not hard to see why , who contributes a brief introduction, was attracted to its bleak, almost magical economy. Moreover, it has filled out the Sicilian landscape for me that I was already in part familiar with from the work of and . One of the great books of life.
This lyrical modernist novel is a beautifully written tale of a man trying to find sense among the dire reality of war. Its dreamy prose comes with a strong anti-war sentiment. Narrated by a man who upon realizing that he is unable to feel anything decides to travel back home i.e. Sicily to reconnect with his roots, this book feels authentic. As the ancient nun from the film The Great Beauty (La Grande Bellezza) points out, roots are indeed important. ( Her lines if I remember well: ...'Do you know why I eat only roots? Because roots are important.')
Author's note says: "I warn the reader that, just as the protagonist of these Conversations is not the author, so the Sicily in which this story takes place is Sicily only by chance." Still, the novel manages to portray some of the tastes and smells of the southern Italy. That is what I meant when I say that it is surreal, in one moment it is realistic and in the other it is not.
One moment you have a feeling you're in Sicily and the other you feel you're lost in the narrator's thoughts. I spent 4 months of my life working and living in Sicily. I turned twenty there and officially left the teenage years behind me. Even if this book isn't specifically about Sicily, one can feel a touch of Sicily in it, a reflection of that magical and mysterious island where so many cultures left their trace. In one way it is Sicily and in another it isn't- it could be any place that is isolated just as narrator could be any man that is isolated, that cannot find answers or consolation, that goes numb from the horrors of the world surrounding him. For this is perhaps first and foremost a work of anti-war prose.
Indeed, this modernist novel is not too focused on Sicily. It is a part of the story, but not its main point. Set in Sicily but perhaps more in the head of its narrator, this book takes us through an odyssey of sorts. With whom the narrator converses in Sicily? With a number of people, but mostly with himself. This books speaks to its reader in a dreamy language. If you're a fan of a straightforward lineal narrative, well this might not be the best book for you.
This is not a typical novel, but then most antiwar prose is not typical, at least the one that is any good. It is not driven by plot. If it can be said to be philosophical then it is philosophical in a mild or indirect way. If I had to compare it with a work of literature, it would be Camino Real by Tennessee Williams. That play is not antiwar writing as far as I remember it, but for some reason that play of Tennessee Williams is the first thing that comes to my mind.
Italo Calvino said this is "the book- Guernica". I can see why he said it, like the famous Guernica this novel is fragmented, full of pain and inspired by horrors of war. However, personally I would opt for one of Dali's painting if I had to make a comparison. Conversation in Sicily has that unusual, uncanny, surreal and dreamy quality od Dali's art.
This is one of those books I wish I had the time to reread some time soon, but I think a reread will have to wait. Not that I have any problems recalling the events in this book and the dreamy quality of writing. When I reread it, I will do it for the pleasure of reading, not because I have forgotten what this book was about. What it was about? As all great works of literature, it is about a great many things. About isolation, about what it means to be human, to search for meaning amidst the horrors of war.
...Thus those who suffered personal misfortune and those who suffered the pain of the wronged world were together in the nude tomb of wine, and could be like spirits, finally parted from this world of suffering and wrongs.鈥�
The novel opens like this: ..." That winter I was in a grip of abstract furies. I won't be more specific, that's not what I've set out to relate. But I have to say that they were abstract, not heroic, not living; in some way they were furies for all doomed humanity." What was he out to relate besides the obvious (the opposition against war)? Without wanting to speculate in too much detail or give any definite answer, I can say that whatever it was I liked it. I liked this dreamy and lyrical novel. I remember it fondly. I long for a reread.
Conversazione in Sicilia non 猫 un libro semplice da leggere, bench茅 estremamente scarno. Il registro narrativo 猫 molto spiazzante. C鈥櫭� un mix di situazioni realistiche e oniriche al contempo. E鈥� una specie di 鈥淔ellini 8 e mezzo鈥� letterario, se vogliamo. Come vi immaginerete, dunque, di interpretazioni ne sono state date tante. Ma ciascuno deve trovare la propria, senza dar retta a quelle altrui. Io mi sono innamorata del piccolo e soave siciliano che porge disperato le arance a sua moglie. Mi sono innamorata del Gran Lombardo che aveva tre belle figlie femmine e che pensava ci fossero altri e pi霉 degni doveri da compiere. Mi sono innamorata del vecchio miele che ancora pu貌 essere smosso nella madre del narratore. Mi sono innamorata dell鈥檃rrotino che potrebbe, se lo volessi, rendere pi霉 aguzzi i miei denti e le mie unghie. Ma 猫 stato un percorso del tutto personale. Come lo sar脿 il vostro, se deciderete di leggerlo.
Absolutely no idea what this one was all about. It wandered from amiable comedic whimsy into poetical landscapery (perfectly nice) and then into manic repetition (perfectly irritating) :
P143 :
It鈥檚 a shame to wrong the world
What are you, a worldly person or one who wrongs the world?
Aren鈥檛 you someone who wrongs the world?
Sometimes we confuse the petty things of the world with wrongs to the world.
(Then for a whole page, nothing about wronging the world. But then )
P145
Earth not yet contaminated by the world鈥檚 wrongs, the wrongs that take place on the earth
Yes, my friend, the world has been wronged
P146
The world has been wronged
He鈥檚 suffering the pain of the wronged world
P147
And he鈥檚 suffering the pain of the wronged world
The world has been badly wronged
(Building up to the final crescendo)
P148
Our friend knows that we鈥檙e suffering the pain of the wronged world
The world is big and beautiful but it has been badly wronged
Everyone suffers each for himself, but not for the world that has been wronged
I am writing down the pains of the wronged world
It doesn鈥檛 stop there, but I will spare you the wronged worlds on page 149 (three times) and 150 (twice). There is clearly something going on here which went whizzing over my head. This novel is supposed to be in one sense a cryptic covert criticism of Mussolini鈥檚 Fascist regime, but I did not get any of that, and I did not get what all this strange repetition was for. So I am thinking that I am not the right reader of this oddball novel. But it is in 1001 Books you Should Read Because We Say So
Scoprirsi tornando alle proprie origini, riportando indietro il tempo sino a riappropriarsi del passato e trovarvi ci貌 che le distrazioni del presente spesso hanno sbiadito. Cogliere una visione diversa degli eventi, ampliare gli orizzonti, rivedere, perch茅 no, molti dei pregressi giudizi, in bene o in male. Credo sia questo il tema portante della storia. Ottimi i dialoghi, molto buone le caratterizzazioni dei personaggi. Si respirano gli odori, si sentono i suoni, si entra in un mondo di materia viva e sapida. Eppure non 猫 un romanzo che mi abbia particolarmente catturato. De gustibus...
Da anni nella mia lista, riesco finalmente a leggerlo e a trascinarmi in questo mondo lontano e perduto, raccontato con gli occhi di un figlio e di una madre che si ritrovano dopo anni di lontananza. Ma, forse, non si ritrova solo la madre ma un mondo che non si riconosce pi霉 eppure profondamente radicato dentro di s茅. 脠 la storia di chi si allontana da casa e poi torna, dei fantasmi che si ritrovano, degli odori di paese, del viaggio fitto di pensieri, di cimiteri e di androni perduti, di profumi e di odori, di cibi e di mancanze.
Pensavo di leggere un'altra storia, invece mi sono trovata in questa conversazione cos矛 lontana e cos矛 vicina.
Silvestro abita al nord, 猫 smarrito e si rende conto di non sentire pi霉 nulla. Decide di tornare a casa dopo 15 anni, in Sicilia, per ritrovare la madre e riconnettersi alle sue radici. Scopre una societ脿 frenata, senza speranza, arrabbiata e confusa, ma dotata di una saggezza ancestrale.
Romanzo politico, onirico, enigmatico. Prosa accessibile, colma di ripetizioni e paradossi narrativi, dove ogni frase allude a qualcos鈥檃ltro. I vari personaggi (Calogero, Ezechiele, Porfirio, Colombo鈥�) rappresentano diverse tipologie di pensiero, in bilico tra materialismo, idealismo, cattolicesimo e regime. Estremamente simbolico, in certi frangenti inafferrabile. Incipit portentoso.
[74/100]
Io ero, quell鈥檌nverno, in preda ad astratti furori. Non dir貌 quali, non di questo mi son messo a raccontare. Ma bisogna dica ch鈥檈rano astratti, non eroici, non vivi; furori, in qualche modo, per il genere umano perduto. Da molto tempo questo, ed ero col capo chino. Vedevo manifesti di giornali squillanti e chinavo il capo; vedevo amici, per un鈥檕ra, due ore, e stavo con loro senza dire una parola, chinavo il capo; e avevo una ragazza o moglie che mi aspettava ma neanche con lei dicevo una parola, anche con lei chinavo il capo. Pioveva intanto e passavano i giorni, i mesi, e io avevo le scarpe rotte, l鈥檃cqua che mi entrava nelle scarpe, e non vi era pi霉 altro che questo: pioggia, massacri sui manifesti dei giornali, e acqua nelle mie scarpe rotte, muti amici, la vita in me come un sordo sogno, e non speranza, quiete.
Era una piccola Sicilia ammonticchiata, di nespoli e tegole, di buchi nella roccia, di terra nera, di capre, con musica di zampogne che si allontanava dietro a noi, e diventava nuvola o neve, in alto.
L鈥檜omo Ezechiele si mise a riepilogare: - Il mondo 猫 grande ed 猫 bello, ma 猫 molto offeso. Tutti soffrono ognuno per se stesso, ma non soffrono per il mondo che 猫 offeso e cos矛 il mondo continua ad essere offeso.
Eravamo immersi nella notte, ormai, e le voci si abbassarono, nessuno pi霉 avrebbe potuto udirci parlare. Stavamo vicini, con le teste vicine, e l鈥檜omo Porfirio era come un enorme cane nero di San Bernardo che tenesse raccolti tutti e se stesso nel calore del suo pelo. A lungo egli parl貌 dell鈥檃cqua viva; e parl貌 l鈥檜omo Ezechiele, parl貌 l鈥檃rrotino; e le parole furono notte nella notte e noi fummo ombre, io credevo di essere entrato in un conciliabolo di spiriti.
Ad evitare equivoci o fraintendimenti avverto che, come il protagonista di questa Conversazione non 猫 autobiografico, cos矛 la Sicilia che lo inquadra e accompagna 猫 solo per avventura Sicilia; solo perch茅 il nome Sicilia mi suona meglio del nome Persia o Venezuela. Del resto immagino che tutti i manoscritti vengano trovati in una bottiglia.
"io ero, quell'inverno, in preda ad astratti furori. non dir貌 quali, non di questo mi son messo a raccontare. ma bisogna dica ch'erano astratti, non eroici, non vivi; furori, in qualche modo, per il genere umano perduto..." (come si fa a non amare un libro con un incipit simile?)
Diffido sempre di certe... esegesi, a meno che non si tratti di poesia, di un testo antico, ricco di arcaismi, oppure - con le debite cautele - di un testo sacro. Retaggi dell'insegnamento ricevuto, tutt'ora buono, nonch茅 primi rudimenti di reale democrazia. La Comunicazione 猫, e resta, un sistema a due vie; altrimenti 猫 altro. Difficile, quindi, digerire le prime 135 pagine di questo libro. Saggi, spiegazioni, tutorial e, soprattutto, esegesi. Di un moderno romanzo in prosa. Che peso! Terminare la lettura del romanzo 猫 stata un'altra impresa, proprio per gli sforzi, moltiplicati, di lasciare fuori tutto ci貌 che non fosse un sano stream of conscious reading; o un dialogo intellettuale diretto con lo scrittore, con la sua storia scritta. E ci貌 proprio a causa delle prefazioni Un vero peccato. Perch茅 il testo vale. E' intenso, struggente. Dipinge un cammino intimo alla ricerca di cardini, di valori, o radici da cui ripartire, abbinandolo a un vero quanto improvvisato "viaggio a ritroso". E' ricco di momenti di poesia narrativa; tecnicamente interessante (l'ipnosi generata dalle iterazioni; l'effondersi di atmosfere non descritte, percepite solo attraverso certe titubanze del monologo interiore; le parole pesate al grammo, scelte per suonare...) C'猫 molto, considerata l'epoca in cui fu scritto. Compresa una certa audacia; sulle caratteristiche della quale - per貌 -, sia letterarie che sociali, andrebbe aperto un simposio. Aggiungo che la valenza politica di queste pagine risulterebbe, ancora oggi, assai pi霉 efficace, naturale e dignitosa, se non fosse preceduta e accompagnata sempre dalla pletora di teorizzazioni stucchevoli, ridondanti spiegazioni per adepti e non addetti, e da un flusso di accrediti, che in qualche modo la smitizzano. La celebrazione inutile 猫 un limite di cui gran parte del nostro tessuto sociale non si liberer脿 mai.
Italo Calvino said this is "the book- Guernica". I can see why he said it, like the famous Guernica this novel is fragmented, full of pain and inspired by horrors of war. However, personally I would opt for one of Dali's painting if I had to make a comparison. Conversation in Sicily has that unusual, uncanny, surreal and dreamy quality od Dali's art.
This is not a typical novel, but then most antiwar prose is not typical, at least the one that is any good. It is not driven by plot. If it can be said to be philosophical then it is philosophical in a mild or indirect way. If I had to compare it with a work of literature, it would be Camino Real. That play is not antiwar writing as far as I remember it, but for some reason that play of Tennessee Williams is the first thing that comes to my mind.
Author's note says: " I warn the reader that, just as the protagonist of these Conversations is not the author, so the Sicily in which this story takes place is Sicily only by chance." Still, the novel manages to portray some of the tastes and smells of the southern Italy. That is what I meant when I say that it is surreal, in one moment it is realistic and in the other it is not. In one way it is Sicily and in another it isn't- it could be any place that is isolated just as narrator could be any man that is isolated, that cannot find answers or consolation, that goes numb from the horrors of the world surrounding him.
The novel opens like this: " That winter I was in a grip of abstract furies. I won't be more specific, that's not what I've set out to relate. But I have to say that they were abstract, not heroic, not living; in some way they were furies for all doomed humanity." What was he out to relate? Without wanting to speculate or give any definite answer, I can say that whatever it was I liked it.
Ancora fondamentale e validissimo questa celebre opera di Vittorini: se (forse) la materia sociale e politica mostra gli anni passati, lo stile di scrittura e la struttura del romanzo lo mantengono ancora stimolante e stratificato anche per il lettore contemporaneo. Mi ha ricordato (mutatis mutandis) un altro importante viaggio onirico della letteratura, quel che rimane pietra miliare della cultura sudamericana. La lenta ascensione da una dimensione terrestre e terragna 猫 realizzata prima di tutto con lo stile, in cui le continue ripetizioni di parole e frasi (spesso particolari e strane nel contesto) danno un senso di ridondante litania, in una sorta di barocco sonoro (appropriatamente, arrivando in Sicilia). Su questa colonna sonora si dipanano gli incontri del protagonista che appaiono dapprima realistici ed episodici, ma finiscono per assumere un carattere allegorico sempre pi霉 forte, in particolare nella quarta parte dove i "conversatori" divengono simboli della Patria, del Partito, della Chiesa. Ma questa struttura teorica non nuoce particolarmente al romanzo che in effetti rappresenta tutte le pulsioni sentimentali e i pensieri socio-politici che scuotono il protagonista. I moltissimi rimandi culturali (a partire da Shakespeare fino alla drammaturgia greca fino alla conclusione del libro centrata sulla figura del fratello morto) rendono questo libro estremamente denso, nonostante la scrittura apparentemente semplice.
The first 8 or 9 pages I audibly sighed. Not my style, I thought. So arrogant, so self-centered, so male "all about me" with most others not given names, just basic descriptive categories. Women, wives, girlfriends basically in the "them" category of mere landscape mention.
But no, it was fabulous. I almost gave it a 5. He hits the very essence of Sicilian perceptions and self-identity. And the exact kinds of communication and sensibilities that result.
In the rock, in the prickly pear, in the Mother's life- every aspect- this author is Sicily. And a Sicilian looking at the world of the "Big Lombard" that is away- he knows.
Enjoyable and fabulous read. There are quotes worth rereading on every other page that relate to human nature, trust- so much of the essence of being alive- when you "understand" the Sicilian conversations.
This relatively obscure (and difficult-to-find) short novel is not at all what I expected. I learned about it from reading 鈥淭he Age of Doubt,鈥� #14 in Andrea Camilleri鈥檚 Inspector Montalbano series. Camilleri indicated that 鈥淐onversations in Sicily鈥� offered a critique of the rise of fascism in Italy. No doubt, but the short novel is so subtle and allegorical that the point is never made explicitly. There are only allusions, including to Shakespeare鈥檚 Macbeth, and flights of magical realism. Perhaps one should consider, as a review in the Guardian suggests, that Vittorini, who for a period was communist, very likely could have published such a critique only on a very abstract plane:
Although I was somewhat disappointed by Vittorini's indirectness, I still found this mysterious novel oddly compelling. The protagonist, an alienated and marginally employed man from northern Italy, visits his ancestral Sicily after an absence of 15 years. In his casual contacts and cryptic conversations with ordinary Sicilians, he encounters the despair of common people crushed by desperate poverty鈥攁n orange vendor who bitterly eats his own oranges--his and his ailing wife鈥檚 only sustenance--because he cannot find any buyers and a knife grinder who similarly cannot find enough customers with tools to sharpen. He discovers a Sicilian society held back by a primitive agrarian economy鈥攚oefully underdeveloped in contrast to the industrial north. Even more profoundly, this wretched society was adrift, hopeless, angry, and confused.
The protagonist鈥檚 mother has a third-grade education, but the wisdom of a peasant. As the reviewer notes, from the author鈥檚 perspective she embodies realism. Despite repeated probing conversations, the son (Silvestro) is unable to overcome the chasm that has opened up between him and his mother (Concezione), between his present and his past. This same realism causes her to cast doubt on her son鈥檚 claim that she should be honored and envied for having lost another son in war.
Concezione: 鈥淗is death honors me?鈥� Silvestro: 鈥淒ying he brought honor to himself鈥︹€� Concezione: 鈥淎nd that鈥檚 why I鈥檓 fortunate?鈥� Silvestro: 鈥淭he honor reflects back on you. You gave birth to him.鈥� Concezione: 鈥淏ut I鈥檝e lost him, now. I should call myself unfortunate.鈥� Silvestro: 鈥淣ot at all. Losing him you鈥檝e gained him. You are fortunate.鈥�
Concezione resists Silvestro鈥檚 attempt to comfort her by comparing her sacrifice to the pride that Cornelia Scipionis Africana, a Roman noblewoman, had in her sons. Cornelia famously replied to a question about her modest attire by pointing to her sons: 鈥淭hese are my jewels.鈥� Ever the stubborn skeptic, Concezione looks up Cornelia in a children鈥檚 book and determines that in fact her sons did not die on the battlefield. 鈥淏y the way, you got me confused with that Cornelia,鈥� she tells her son.
The underlying question is: why sacrifice oneself for a dubious patriotic honor? Once again, literature speaks to us across centuries and continents. Perhaps 鈥淐onversations in Italy鈥� can best be appreciated for its timeless anti-war message.
Elio Vittorini鈥檚 CONVERSATIONS IN SICILY is a quiet novel It was written a lifetime ago, at the end of the 1930s, in Northern Italy, although the story takes place in Sicily鈥攖akes place on a ferry crossing, a train ride, and then up to and around a hill town above Syracuse. It also takes place almost entirely in the mind of the narrator, Silvestro Ferrauto.
This is not to say there are no actual conversations. Silvestro shares a few words with people he encounters on his journey, a pitiful old man from whom he buys an orange he doesn鈥檛 want. He brushes against others including a pair who may be secret police or a vaudeville act. Home, he speaks with and also interrogates his mother Concezione. The formidable Concezione, who, after a 15-year separation greets her son by asking, 鈥淏ut what the devil brought you here?鈥�
Later, he will converse with a knife sharpener, a saddle maker, a cloth merchant all of whom he follows into a bar. Together they form a comic if solemn confraternity who drink to the 鈥渨rongs of the world.鈥� It is not a trivial concern. Who has not wronged the world and who has not been wronged?
These scenes are among the saddest in the book. Leaving the bar, Silvano finds himself in the village graveyard where he is engaged in another conversation, one with ghost who is no stranger. The scene at the bar could be read as an absurdist aside within the story; Silvestro鈥檚 companions would not seem out of character if they were wearing grease paint, but I think that would be a mistake. Vittorini seems to argue, one can run but one can鈥檛 hide.
Silvestro, like Vittorini, was first a runaway and then an exile. In the book鈥檚 telling, Silvestro who left home at 15 returns only after receiving a letter from his father who urges him to see his mother on her name day. A father who is no paterfamilias and so a man with no authority. A father who himself left home but whom we catch a glimpse of at the book鈥檚 end.
Before the Silvestro begins his journey his anomie is conspicuous. He is detached from his work, girlfriend and from the events of the day. The visit home is not suggested as an antidote to anything, nor is it an obligation, but rather an inevitability. Home is both the beginning and the end.
In CONVERSATIONS, Vittorini鈥檚 political views are, of necessity, disguised. If the reader is of a mind he or she can locate antifascist commentary. I suggest Vittorini鈥檚 politics are of no consequence. The story of the boy/man returning home is as old as Homer or the parable of the Prodigal Son. As for anomie, it is simply a condition of modernity.
Silvestro is not Every Man, he is No Man. His ability to turn this way or that is less evidence of volition than being on edge and off balance. Silvestro鈥檚 sudden departure is merely a fact, like the price of a train ticket. The man is only another traveler "with no direction home."
And the knife grinder: "Pepperoni, milk, goats, pigs and cows...Mice." And I: "Bears, wolves." And the knife grinder: "Birds. Trees and smoke, snow..." And I: "Sickness, healing. I know, I know. Death, immortality, and resurrection." "Ah!" the knife grinder shouted. "What?" I asked. "It's amazing," the knife grinder said. "Ah! and Oh! Uh! Eh!" And I: "I suppose."
Quote 2.
"I thought of my father and myself, all men, with our need for soft hands touching us, and I thought I understood something of our uneasiness with women; of our readiness to desert them, our women with their rough, almost masculine hands, their tough hands in bed at night; and of how like slaves we would submit to calling a woman a queen who was a woman, an odalisque, when she touched us. This is why, I thought, we loved the idea of people living in luxury, the idea of the whole civil-military society and of the hierarchies, the dynasties, and the princes and kings in the fables-because of the idea of the woman who cultivated her hands for tenderness...and this is why we took our eyes off the women and children who were our equals and continued to play the field, looking for other women-myself, my father, all men, looking for something else in those other women without ever knowing that we were looking to be touched by tender hands"
Repriza posle jedanaest godina. Jo拧 je bolje nego 拧to sam upamtila. Najbolja komunisti膷ka knjiga koja nikad nije bila u lektiri! (budimo iskreni: svrstavanje u lektiru tako stra拧no sni啪ava koeficijent voljenosti neke knjige, jadan Tihi Don i jadni mi 拧to smo ga na silu 膷itali kad nije trebalo)
A sad ozbiljno: Razgovor na Siciliji je tako retka i neobi膷na knjiga da mora vatreno da se voli, ali uop拧te ne mo啪e primereno da se hvali.
La spinta a soffrire, oltre che per se stessi, "per il mondo che 猫 offeso"; l'urgenza di "altri doveri", di "nuovi doveri": da un mare per il resto alquanto ermetico, sono messaggi in bottiglia sufficientemente chiari, spiaggiati nel 1941.
S陌C陌LYA KONU艦MALARI ***Yazar谋n 15 ya艧谋na kadarki 莽ocuklu臒u I.D眉nya Sava艧谋 s谋ras谋nda Sicilya'da ge莽mi艧tir. Kitab谋 yazd谋臒谋 30'lu ya艧lar谋n谋n ba艧谋nda ise II.D眉nya Sava艧谋 s眉rmektedir ve yazar gen莽li臒inin ba艧谋nda terk etti臒i Sicilya'ya 15 y谋l sonra ilk kez d枚nmektedir***
Akl谋mdan 莽谋karamad谋臒谋m 脰LEN 陌NSAN YI臑INLARI ve YOK OLUP G陌TMEKTE OLAN 陌NSANLIKLA ilgili 枚fke n枚betleri ya艧amaktayd谋m; 脟ocuklu臒umda da, y谋l谋n g眉nleri, 365 kapkara, bi莽imsiz fare gibiydi. Anlams谋z bir d眉艧, sessiz bir umutsuzluktu ya艧amak benim i莽in. 陌艧in en korkun莽 yan谋 da buydu: UMUTSUZLU臑UN SESS陌ZL陌臑陌; insanl谋臒谋n yok olmaya yarg谋l谋 oldu臒una inanmak, ama onu kurtarmak i莽in hi莽bir istek duymamak, bunun yerine onunla birlikte yok olmay谋 枚zlemek.
(Sefaletin h眉k眉m s眉rd眉臒眉 Sicilya'da) PORTAKAL satabilmek 莽ok g眉莽 bir i艧; (her taraf portakal bah莽esi) patronlar para yerine portakal veriyor i艧莽ilerine, kimse portakal sat谋n alm谋yor, zehirli gibiler sanki.
Sicilya'da herkes her 艧eyin k枚t眉 yan谋n谋 g枚rmeye haz谋rd谋r; biz Sicilyal谋lar i莽i H脺Z脺N dolu insanlar谋z.
Leonforte'de geni艧 topraklar谋 olan bir adam, at谋yla topraklar谋nda dola艧谋rken, kendini oralar谋n KRALI san谋rm谋艧, 莽眉nk眉 o kadar kurumlu ve iri bir atm谋艧 bu. Ama ATINDAN 陌N陌NCE krall谋臒谋n谋 devam ettirecek bir neden bulam谋yormu艧.
Art谋k 枚devlerimizi yerine getirmek bizi tatmin etmiyor. Onlar谋 yerine getirmek bir 莽e艧it duygusuzlu臒a yol a莽makta, 枚devler yerine getirildikten sonra i莽imizde bir rahatlama olmuyor. Sebebi de bu 脰DEVLER陌N ARTIK 脟OK ESK陌M陌艦 艦EYLER, 莽ok eski ve KOLAYLA艦MI艦 SORUMLULUKLAR olmas谋. Bunlar ger莽ek vicdan谋n ihtiya莽lar谋 de臒il art谋k...
Sicilyal谋 kad谋nlar; elleri geceleri yumu艧akl谋ktan yoksun, belki de zaman zaman bu y眉zden mutsuz, k谋skan莽, hatta vah艧i; bir odal谋臒谋n kalbine ve y眉z眉ne sahip olup, erkeklerini kendilerine ba臒layacak YUMU艦ACIK ELLER陌 OLMAYAN KADINLAR. Kad谋nlarla olan huzursuzlu臒umuzu biraz anlar gibi oldum, sert ve kemikli, neredeyse erkeksi elleriyle kad谋nlar谋m谋z谋 ne kadar 莽abuk b谋rakmaya haz谋r oldu臒umuzu d眉艧眉nd眉m. Bolluk i莽inde yeti艧en insanlar谋 莽ekici yapan 艧eyin bu oldu臒unu d眉艧眉nd眉m.
Annem, bir ku艧 gibi 艧ak谋yor, m谋r谋ldan谋yor, 谋sl谋k 莽al谋yor, arada bir de sesini tizle艧tirip bir 艧eyler s枚yl眉yordu. Ellerinin ve ayaklar谋n谋n hi莽 枚nemi yoktu, ka莽 ya艧谋nda oldu臒u bile 枚nemli de臒ildi. 脰nemli olan o 艧ark谋lar谋 s枚ylemesiydi, bir ku艧 gibi, havada u莽an bir ana ku艧tu, yumurtalar谋n谋n aras谋nda, p谋r谋l p谋r谋l, 谋艧谋k sa莽an bir ana ku艧tu. Babam谋n ba艧ka kad谋nlara duydu臒u iste臒in sadece hesab谋n谋 tutmaktan peri艧an olmu艧 ZAVALLI B陌R KADIN OLMASINI 脰NLEYECEK ZENG陌NL陌KTE B陌R ANALIK DUYGUSU. 脟aresiz bir insan olamayacak kadar doluydu O ESK陌 BALLA.
BELK陌 DE HER 陌NSAN 陌NSAN DE臑锟斤拷LD陌R; b眉t眉n insanl谋k insan olmaktan uzakt谋r. Ya臒murlu bir g眉nde, insan谋n ayakkab谋lar谋 delik de艧ikse ve su al谋yorsa; g枚nl眉n眉 birine kapt谋rmam谋艧sa, ya艧ayaca臒谋 bir hayat谋 yoksa; ne ba艧ard谋臒谋, ne de ba艧araca臒谋 bir 艧ey yoksa; ne korkaca臒谋, ne yitirece臒i bir 艧ey kalm谋艧sa, ve 莽evresinde d眉nyadaki k谋r谋m谋 g枚r眉yorsa, insan谋n i莽ine i艧te b枚yle bir ku艧ku d眉艧ebilir.
Her insan insan de臒ildir. Biri cana k谋y谋yor, 枚b眉r眉n眉n can谋na k谋y谋l谋yor; b眉t眉n insanl谋k de臒il, ancak CANLARINA KIYILANLAR 陌NSANDIR. Hasta olan, a莽 olan da daha insand谋r, a莽lar谋n meydana getirdi臒i insanl谋k da DAHA 陌NSANd谋r.
Bana kal谋rsa, yoksul bir gezgin Sicilyal谋 de臒il de 脟inliyse, bir kad谋n谋n ona verece臒i pek bir 艧ey olmaz. YOKSUL B陌R 脟陌NL陌, 脰B脺R YOKSULLARDAN DAHA DA YOKSULDUR.
"SEN HASTALI臑I 陌Y陌 ET, HER 艦EY D脺ZEL陌R" dedi annem.
HATIRLAYACAK B陌R 艦EYLER陌 OLANLARA NE MUTLU !
脟ocukken kitap okumak 莽ok iyidir; insan okuduklar谋n谋 sanki onlar谋 ya艧am谋艧 gibi hat谋rlar, 莽ocukluk an谋lar谋yla birlikte insanl谋臒谋n ve d眉nyan谋n tarihini de i莽inde ta艧谋r.
Bir 莽ocu臒un b眉t眉n istedi臒i ka臒谋t, r眉zgar ve U脟URTMASINI u莽urmakt谋r. Gidip u莽urtmas谋n谋 havaland谋r谋r, uzun ve g枚r眉nmeyen iple oradan oraya g枚t眉r眉r, b枚ylece inanc谋 y眉celir ve edindi臒i ger莽eklikle beslenir. Ama bu ger莽ekli臒i ne yapacakt谋r sonra? Sonra d眉nyaya y枚neltilen k眉f眉rleri, sayg谋s谋zl谋臒谋, k枚leli臒i, insanlar aras谋ndaki haks谋zl谋臒谋, 枚ld眉rmeleri 枚臒renecektir. Bu durumda, o ger莽ekli臒i korusa bile, ne yapabilir? Ben ne yapabilirdim?
D脺NYA b眉y眉k, d眉nya g眉zel, ama 莽ok can谋na okunmu艧. Herkes ac谋 莽ekiyor, ama her insan kendisi i莽in, can谋na okunan d眉nya i莽in de臒il. Bu y眉zden de d眉nyan谋n can谋na okuyanlar谋n sonu gelmiyor; sonra da yapt谋klar谋na da ars谋z y眉zlerle g眉l眉yorlar.
Meyhanenin mahzeninde y谋llanm谋艧 莽谋plak 艧araptan ve 莽a臒lar boyunca KEND陌 脟IPLAKLIKLARI 艦ARABIN 脟IPLAKLI臑INA KARI艦MI艦 陌NSANLARIN HAYALETLER陌NDEN ba艧ka bir 艧ey yoktu. 艦ARABIN OLDU臑U YERDE D脺NYANIN K脺脟脺K HESAPLARININ 陌Z陌NE RASTLANMAYA臑INI ileri s眉rd眉 meyhanedekilerden biri.
D眉艧眉nd眉m de, her yan谋m谋 saran bu u莽suz bucaks谋z gece art arda geceler gibi geldi bana. A艧a臒谋lardaki ve tepelerdeki o 谋艧谋klar, o dondurucu karanl谋k, g枚kteki o donuk y谋ld谋z, bir tek gece de臒il de, SONSUZ SAYIDA GECELERdi; dedemin gecelerini, babam谋n gecelerini, Nuh'un gecelerini, i莽kinin 莽谋plakl谋臒谋 i莽inde ve savunmas谋z, a艧a臒谋lanm谋艧 bir 莽ocuktan ya da bir cesetten 莽ok daha az insan olan insanl谋臒谋n gecelerini d眉艧眉nd眉m.
SHAKESPEARE yada onun oyunlar谋n谋 oynayan babam, insanlara boyun e臒dirir, i莽lerine girer, onlar谋 o pisli臒in i莽inden kurtar谋r, onlara d眉艧ler kurdurur; g眉nahlar谋n谋 itiraf ettirir, insanl谋k i莽in ac谋 莽ektirir, a臒lat谋r, yalvart谋r, onlar谋 insan 枚zg眉rl眉臒眉n眉n simgeleri olmaya zorlard谋.
脰te yandan Shakespeare s谋radan insanlar谋 dizelerine koymad谋臒谋, yenilenlerin 枚莽lerini almamaya ve yenenleri ba臒谋艧lamaya karar verdi臒inden beri, MEZARLIKLARDAK陌 HAYALETLER KEND陌 OYUNLARINI OYNAMAKTALAR HER GECE.
Letto ovviamente in concomitanza di un viaggio in Sicilia, non posso dirmi di essermici ritrovato (si svolge durante il ventennio fascista), ma alcuni luoghi e descrizioni di personaggi mi sono sembrati molto attuali.
Non 猫 immediata la scrittura di Vittorini in questo libro, alcuni passaggi sono rimasti oscuri per me, per貌 una volta entrati nel linguaggio ci si rende conto di come questa sia una grande opera italiana; non solo per la qualit脿 dello scritto, ma anche per ci貌 che racconta. Una denuncia non troppo velata verso i mali del regime, la condizione di miseria dei siciliani e la mentalit脿 delle persone, che non le porta davvero ad opporsi alla dittatura con convinzione.
The only thing that is stopping me from giving it 5 stars, is the fact that I didn鈥檛 understand 30% of it. I will definitely reread once my Italian is better.
Silvestro, figlio di un ex ferroviere, attore dilettante, fa un viaggio nella terra natia, la Sicilia. Un giorno, suo padre Costantino, gli spedisce una lettera, nella quale gli comunica l鈥檌ntenzione di lasciare la moglie per vivere accanto ad un鈥檃ltra donna: questo il motivo che spinge il protagonista a partire e, insieme con questo, c鈥櫭� la voglia di rivedere sua madre, che non vede da 15 anni. Durante il viaggio in treno, Silvestro conosce alcuni personaggi che, in qualche modo, gli fanno ricordare il vero spirito della sua terra.
Arrivato a casa, cerca subito la madre, la quale, dopo tanto tempo, lo accoglie con stupore, perfettamente comprensibile dopo tanti anni di lontananza. La donna, che si chiamava Concezione, aveva come occupazione, quella di fare iniezioni alla gente del posto e poco le importava se non tutti la pagavano sempre. Anche nel giorno dell鈥檃rrivo di suo figlio, la donna non aveva smesso il suo lavoro, mentre Silvestro aveva fatto amicizia con qualche abitante come l鈥檃rrotino di passaggio e altri ancora, tutti accomunati da un unico sentimento, il dolore del mondo offeso che soffre. Il protagonista, in qualche modo affascinato da queste persone, trascorre la sera con loro in un鈥檕steria, ubriacandosi. Tornato a casa, sogna suo fratello, morto in guerra e, non appena sveglio, si preoccupa di interpretare ma quella specie di visione: esce, fa un giro per il paese, e poi ritorna senza una risposta. Il giorno della sua partenza, Silvestro rivede il padre, il quale ha improvvisamente deciso di tornare accanto alla moglie. Il libro 猫 molto espressivo, soprattutto per le descrizioni dei luoghi e della gente della Sicilia: la forma 猫 identica a quella di Uomini e no, che prevede ripetizioni continue, tipiche del modo di scrivere di Vittorini.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.