Cesare Pavese - Casa de pe colina
La alegerea acestei carti, mai mult decat titlul sau altceva m-a atras povestea autorului. Nu am citit cine stie ce din literatura italiana, cu atat mai putin autori contemporani. Din informatiile de pe coperta mi-a sarit in ochi faptul ca romanul incearca sa fie o conciliere cu Italia, pe care autorul o uraste - chiar mentioneaza asta in roman, la un moment dat, spunand ca uraste Italia dar ii iubeste pe italieni. In acelasi timp am aflat si ca autorul s-a sinucis, ceea ce este o fascinatie in plus pentru mine. Sinuciderea implica trairi foarte intense...si imi plac oamenii cu astfel de trairi.
Romanul nu a fost tocmai povestea spectaculoasa pe care o asteptam insa a fost o lectura placuta si emotionanta pe alocuri. In timpul razboiului, un tanar profesor refuza sa participe activ la lupta anti-fascista, se refugiaza intr-o manastire iar apoi in satul natal. Razboiul il urmareste insa; este, evident, o parte din viata tuturor. A fost interesant de urmarit zbuciumul prin care trece personajul - felul in care predica despre importanta lipsei iubirii in vreme de razboi, caci atrage atentia si deraiaza oamenii de pe calea aleasa si in acelasi timp felul in care se agata de cel pe care il crede fiul sau.
Recunosc ca am sarit unele pasaje, nu e tocmai cea mai incitanta lectura, dar a fost relaxant, desi trist.
Autorul a scris si poezie. Mi-a placut, va las o "mostra". :)
Romanul nu a fost tocmai povestea spectaculoasa pe care o asteptam insa a fost o lectura placuta si emotionanta pe alocuri. In timpul razboiului, un tanar profesor refuza sa participe activ la lupta anti-fascista, se refugiaza intr-o manastire iar apoi in satul natal. Razboiul il urmareste insa; este, evident, o parte din viata tuturor. A fost interesant de urmarit zbuciumul prin care trece personajul - felul in care predica despre importanta lipsei iubirii in vreme de razboi, caci atrage atentia si deraiaza oamenii de pe calea aleasa si in acelasi timp felul in care se agata de cel pe care il crede fiul sau.
Recunosc ca am sarit unele pasaje, nu e tocmai cea mai incitanta lectura, dar a fost relaxant, desi trist.
Autorul a scris si poezie. Mi-a placut, va las o "mostra". :)
The Cats Will Know*
Again the rain will fall
on the sweet pavements,
a light rain
like a breath or a footstep.
Again the breeze and the dawn
will blossom lightly
beneath your footstep
as you reenter.
Among flowers and sills
the cats will know it.
There will be other days.
There will be other voices.
You will smile alone.
The cats will know it.
You will hear antique words,
tired and empty words
like the disused costumes
from yesterday's festivals.
You too will make gestures.
You will respond with words—
face of Spring,
you too will make gestures.
The cats will know it,
face of Spring;
and the light rain,
the hyacinth-color dawn,
that tears the heart of one
who no longer longs for you,
they are the sad smile
you smile alone.
There will be other days,
other voices and awakenings.
We will suffer at dawn,
face of Spring.
Again the rain will fall
on the sweet pavements,
a light rain
like a breath or a footstep.
Again the breeze and the dawn
will blossom lightly
beneath your footstep
as you reenter.
Among flowers and sills
the cats will know it.
There will be other days.
There will be other voices.
You will smile alone.
The cats will know it.
You will hear antique words,
tired and empty words
like the disused costumes
from yesterday's festivals.
You too will make gestures.
You will respond with words—
face of Spring,
you too will make gestures.
The cats will know it,
face of Spring;
and the light rain,
the hyacinth-color dawn,
that tears the heart of one
who no longer longs for you,
they are the sad smile
you smile alone.
There will be other days,
other voices and awakenings.
We will suffer at dawn,
face of Spring.
*original title by Pavese in English, written for his lover, the American actress Constance Dowling
Sursa: http://www.milkmag.org/CESAREPAVESE6.html
din poezia lui Cesare Pavese imi place
Alter Ego
From morning till evening he saw the tattoo
on his silky chest: a russet woman,
lying concealed in the field of hair. Beneath there was
sometimes chaos, she leapt up suddenly.
The day passed in cursing and silence.
If the woman were no tattoo but
clung alive to his hairy chest, he'd
cry out more loudly in the little cell.
Wide-eyed, he lay silently stretched on the bed.
A deep sealike sigh swelled
the big solid bones in his body: he lay
as on a boat-deck. He rested heavily on the bed
like someone who on waking might jump up.
His body, salted with spray, poured out
sweat full of sunshine. The little cell
was not big enough for a single one of his glances.
His hands showed he was thinking of the woman.
Da, e frumoasa. De fapt, cred ca prefer poezia lui, nu proza. :)
Trimiteți un comentariu