1975 : Eugenio Montale

1975 : Eugenio Montale

“for his distinctive poetry which, with great artistic sensitivity, has interpreted human values under the sign of an outlook on life with no illusions”

Born

:

October 12, 1896

Place of birth

:

Genoa, Italy

Died

:

September 12, 1981

Place of death

:

Milan, Italy

Occupation

:

Poet, Prose writer, Editor, Translator

Nationality

:

Italy

Notable award(s)

:

Nobel Prize in Literature 1975

Biography:

Eugenio Montale was the sixth and last child of a family of wealthy merchants of chemicals in Genoa. His parents were vendors, among others, the family of Italo Svevo. Montale had health difficulties during childhood, which forced him to interrupt their studies. His sister Marian was responsible for their care. I wanted to be a singer, and resume their formal studies, he took singing classes in parallel. His love of music is reflected in many of his poems and would take him eventually, at maturity, to exercise the critical music. He earned the title of accountant, a race which he had directed his father. He read avidly during his childhood and adolescence, the French symbolist. Without teachers, learned English and French. In 1917, was incorporated into the army and participated in the First World War experience would also have resonance in his poetry. In 1925, signing a famous manifesto of intellectuals against fascism, a document Inspired by the philosopher Benedetto Croce. He moved to Florence to work on the editorial Bemporad. Meet the woman with whom establish a deep relationship, and that will last many years, Drusilla Tanzi. In this period is very important collaboration with the famous literary cafe Giubbe Rosse. In 1929 he was appointed director of the prestigious Cabinet Vieusseux, one of the most interesting libraries and archives of his time, and that attracts intellectuals of the country and abroad. The poet T. S. Eliot translate his poems into English. After ten years at the helm of the Cabinet Vieusseux, the fascist government leaves it lost. During World War II, staying at his house to persecuted writers such as Umberto Saba and Carlo Levi. In those years of war, is dedicated to the translation of authors such as Miguel de Cervantes, Christopher Marlowe, Herman Melville, Mark Twain and William Faulkner. After the war, is used as a music critic in the daily Corriere della Sera, Milan. He traveled through Europe and the United States. He was awarded the honorary degree at the University of Milan. You receive the prize important Feltrinelli. He married Drusilla Tanzi in 1962, she died the following year. In 1966, was appointed senator for life by the president Giuseppe Saragat. Wins Nobel in 1975.

Works:

Works in Italian:

  • Ossi di seppia – Turin : Gobetti, 1925 – Enlarged ed., Turin: Fratelli Ribet, 1928

  • La Casa dei doganieri e altri versi – Florence : Vallecchi, 1932

  • Le occasioni – Turin : Einaudi, 1939

  • Finisterre – Lugano, Switzerland : Collana di Lugano, 1943

  • La bufera e altro – Venice : Neri Pozza, 1956

  • Farfulla di Dinard – Venice : Neri Pozza, 1956

  • Satura – Verona: Bodoni, 1962

  • Accordi e pastelli – Milan : Scheiwiller, 1962

  • Celebrazione di Italo Svevo – Trieste: Circolo della Cultura delle Arti, 1963

  • Xenia – San Severino Marche : Bellabarba, 1966

  • Auto da fe – Milan : Saggiatore, 1966

  • Il colpevole – Milan : Scheiwiller, 1966

  • Fuori di casa – Milan : Ricciardi, 1969

  • Diario del ’71 – Milan: Scheiwiller, 1971

  • Satura : 1962-1970 – Milan: Mondadori, 1971

  • La poesia non esiste – Milan : Scheiwiller, 1971

  • Seconda maniera di Marmeladov – Milan : Scheiwiller, 1971

  • Il poeta : Diario – Verona : Bodoni, 1972

  • Nel nostro tempo – Milan : Rizzoli, 1972

  • Diario del ’71 e del ’72 – Milan : Mondadori, 1973

  • Trentadue variazioni – Milan : Lucini, 1973

  • E ancora possibile la poesia? – Stockholm/Roma : Italica, 1975

  • Otto poesie – Milan : Scheiwiller, 1975

  • Sulla poesia – Milan : Mondadori, 1976

  • Tutte le poesie – Milan : Mondadori, 1977. – Enlarged ed., 1984

  • Quaderno di quattro anni – Milan : Mondadori, 1977

  • Montale premio Nobel – Bologna : Boni, 1977

  • Montale commenta Montale – Parma : Pratiche, 1980

  • L’opera in versi / edizione critica a cura di Rosanna Bettarini e Gianfranco Contini – Torino : Einaudi, 1980

  • Prime alla Scala – Milan : Mondadori, 1981

  • Lettere a Salvatore Quasimodo – Millan : Bompiani, 1981

  • Quaderno genovese – Milan : Mondadori, 1983

  • Il bulldog di legno : intervista di Giuliano Dego a Eugenio Montale – Roma : Editori Riuniti, 1985

  • Poesie inedite – 6 vol. – Lugano : Fondazione Schlesinger, 1986-

  • Il carteggio Einaudi-Montale per ‘Le occasioni’ (1938-39 ) / a cura di C. Sacchi – Torino, Einaudi, 1988

  • Mottetti – Milan : Adelphi, 1988

  • Diario postumo : 66 poesie e altre / a cura di Annalisa Cima – Milan : Mondadori, 1996

  • Il secondo mestiere : arte, musica, societa / a cura di Giorgio Zampa – 2 vol – Milano : A. Mondadori, 1996

Works in English:

  • Poems / translated by Edwin Morgan – Reading, U.K.: University of Reading, 1959

  • Poesie = Poems / translated by George Kay – Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1964

  • Selected Poems / translated by Ben Belitt and others – New York : New Directions, 1966

  • Selected Poems / translated by George Kay – Harmondsworth : Penguin Books, 1969

  • Satura : five poems / translations by Donald Sheehan & David Keller – Madison : Francesca Press, 1969

  • Xenia / translated by G. Singh – Los Angeles : Black Sparrow Press, 1970

  • Provisional Conclusions : a Selection / translated by Edith Farnsworth – Chicago: Regnery, 1970

  • The Butterfly of Dinard / translated by G. Singh – London: London Magazine, 1970

  • Mottetti : the motets of Eugenio Montale in Italian with facing English translations by Lawrence Kart – San Francisco : Grabhorn Hoyem, 1973

  • New poems : a selection from Satura and Diario del ’71 e del ’72 / translated and introduced by G. Singh – New York : New Directions, 1976

  • Poet in Our Time / translated by Alastair Hamilton – London : Boyars, 1976

  • Xenia and Motets / translated by Kate Hughes – London: Agenda Editions, 1977

  • Selected Essays / translated by G. Singh – Manchester, U.K.: Carcanet, 1978

  • The Storm and Other Poems / translated by Charles Wright – Oberlin, Ohio: Oberlin College, 1978

  • It Depends : a Poet’s Notebook / translated by G. Singh – New York : New Directions, 1980

  • The Second Life of Art : Selected Essays / translated and edited by Jonathan Galassi – New York : Ecco, 1982

  • The Bones of Cuttlefish / translated by Antonino Mazza – Oakville, Ont. & New York: Mosaic, 1983

  • Otherwise : Last and First Poems / translated by Jonathan Galassi – New York : Random House/Vintage, 1984

  • The Storm and Other Things / translated by William Arrowsmith – New York & London : Norton, 1985

  • The Occasions / translated by William Arrowsmith – New York & London : Norton, 1987

  • The Coastguard’s House = La casa dei doganieri : Selected Poems – Newcastle upon Tyne: Bloodaxe Books, 1990

  • Mottetti : Poems of Love : The Motets of Eugenio Montale / translated by Dana Gioia – Saint Paul, Minn.: Graywolf Press, 1990

  • Cuttlefish bones : 1920-1927 / translated, with preface and commentary, by William Arrowsmith – New York : Norton, cop. 1992

  • Collected poems, 1920-1954 / translated and annotated by Jonathan Galassi – New York : Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1998. – Rev. ed., 2000

  • Satura : 1962-1970 / translated with notes, by William Arrowsmith – New York : Norton, 1998

  • Montale in English / edited by Harry Thomas – New York : Handsel Books, 2004

  • Selected poems / translated by Jonathan Galassi, Charles Wright, and David Young ; edited with an introduction by David Young – Oberlin, OH : Oberlin College Press, 2004

Literature (a selection):

  • Ramat, Silvio, Montale – Firenze, 1965

  • Avalle, D’Arco Silvio, Tre saggi su Montale – Torino, 1970

  • Cambon, Glauco, Eugenio Montale – New York, 1972

  • Barile, Laura, Bibliografia montaliana – Milano : Mondadori, 1977

  • Graziosi, Elisabetta, Il tempo in Montale : storia di un tema – Firenze, 1978

  • Greco, Lorenzo, Montale commenta Montale – Parma : Pratiche Editrice, 1980

  • Isella, Dante, L’ idillio di Meulan : da Manzoni a Sereni – Torino : Einaudi, 1994

  • Eugenio Montale / a cura di Annalisa Cima e Cesare Segre – Milano : Bompiani, 1996

  • Millo, Achille, Conversazioni con Montale e Pasolini – Roma : Ed. dell’Oleandro, 1996

  • Luperini, Romano, Storia di Montale – Roma : Laterza, 1999

Awards:

1975: Nobel Prize in Literature.

Presentation Speech:

Presentation Speech by Anders Osterling, of the Swedish Academy.

Your Majesties, Your Royal Highnesses, Ladies and Gentlemen,

As we all know, this year’s Nobel Prize for Literature has been awarded to Eugenio Montale, from Italy. He comes from Eastern Liguria, a coastal landscape whose harsh character is reflected in his poetry. In this there echoes through the years a musical surge of waves which confronts his own destiny with the stern and beauteous majesty of the Mediterranean. Montale’s famous first book from 1925 bears too the strange title Ossi di seppia, which means “Bones of the Cuttlefish” and clearly emphasizes his distinctive Ligurian character.

At the outset of his career he encountered the fascist dictatorship’s atmosphere of suppression of free speech and enforced standardization. Montale refused to write to order and therefore came to belong to the picked troop of free authors who, in spite of everything, managed to hold their own under cover of the so-called hermeticism. His personality was hardened by bitter experience. He served in the first world war as an infantry officer in the Tyrolean Alps, and later became head of the famous Vieusseux Library in Florence. In 1939 he was abruptly dismissed; not having a fascist party membership card he could not be regarded as an Italian citizen. Not until 1948 was he appointed an editor of Corriere della sera, the big Milan newspaper, in which for many years he has made a name for himself as an outstanding writer on cultural matters and as a music critic.

Montale has slowly confirmed his key position in Italy’s modern literature during this epoch, in many ways so tragic for his native land. To a great extent he can be said to represent this sombre awareness, which seeks individual expression of collective sorrows and troubles. As a poet he interprets this awareness with calm dignity and without any political publicity. He has also gained a seriously listening audience, a fact remarkable in that his lyrical writing is restricted to five books of poems at long intervals. The foremost work is undoubtedly La bufera e altro (“The Storm and Other Things”), which was published in 1956. Nor does his reserved and thoughtful temperament court popularity.

Montale himself once stated that as an Italian he wanted before anything else to “wring the neck of eloquence in the old rhetorical language, even at the risk of finding himself in an anti-eloquence”. Actually he has gladly taken that risk, and his latest book of poems, Diario, a diary from the years 1971 to 1972 consists largely of ironic remarks and epigrams in which the ageing poet lets himself go and criticizes contemporary reality with an almost anti-poetic tendency. His winged horse is a fairly restless spirit, which refuses to stand still docilely in the stall of honour.

But at his best Montale, with strict discipline, has attained a refined artistry, at once personal and objective, in which every word fills its place as precisely as the glass cube in a coloured mosaic. The linguistic laconicism cannot be carried any further; every trace of embellishment and jingle has been cleared away. When, for instance, in the remarkable portrait-poem of the Jewes Dora Markus, he wants to indicate the current background of time, he does so in five words: Distilla veleno una fede feroce (“A fierce faith distils poison”). In such masterpieces both the fateful perspective and the ingeniously concentrated structure are reminiscent of T.S. Eliot and “The Waste Land”, but Montale is unlikely to have received impulses from this quarter and his development has, if anything, followed a parallel path.

During the half-century in which he has worked, Montale’s attitude can be summed up as a fundamental pessimism on the classical line from Leopardi. This pessimism is seldom purely emotional, but manifests itself as a deeply mature, rational insight retaining the critical right both to ask and defy. His conviction is that poor humanity is slipping downhill, that the lessons of history have little value, and that world destitution is going from bad to worse. When he surveys the present juncture he finds that the real evil lies in the fact that the scale of values of another age can be completely lost; in other words, the memory of the great spirits of the past in their striving to build up something which enables us to create another picture of our earthly existence and its conditions.

But his resignation does contain a spark of confidence in life’s instinct to go on, to overcome the accumulated obstacles. Montale would not be the born poet he is, if he did not believe deep down that poetry – without being a mass medium – even in our time is still a gentle power which, unperceived, can act as one of the voices of human conscience, faintly heard admittedly, but indestructible and indispensable.

Dear Mr Montale! In the all too brief time at my disposal I have tried to present your poetry and to justify our award. It only remains for me now to express the heartfelt congratulations of the Swedish Academy and to ask you to receive this year’s Nobel Prize for Literature from the hands of His Majesty the King.

Nobel Lecture:

December 12, 1975

Is Poetry Still Possible?

The Nobel Prize has come to his seventy-round, if not misinformed. And if there are many scientists and writers who have earned this prestigious recognition, much less is the number of survivors who still live and work. Some of them are here and they go to my greeting and my best wishes. According views very widespread, the work of aruspici not always reliable, this year or in the pipeline that can say the whole world (or at least that part of the world that can claim to be civilized) know a historic turning point of colossal proportions. This is not obviously an eschatological, end of man himself, but the advent of a new social harmony which exists still in broad domains dell’Utopia. On expiry of the Nobel Prize will be centenary and only then will be a full budget since the Nobel Foundation and the related Award have contributed to the formation of a new system of Community design life, whether that de Wellness Malaise or universal, but of this scale by putting an end, at least for many centuries, the multi diatribe on the meaning of life. I mean the life of man, not the appearance of amino acids that dates back to a few billion years, substances that have made possible the emergence and perhaps it already contained the project. And in this case is how long the step of deus absconditus! But I do not wander and I wonder if it is justified to conclude that the statute of Nobel prize behind, and that science, not everybody on the same floor, and literary works have helped to spread or defend new values in the broad sense “humanist” . The answer is certainly positive. It would be the long list of names of those who have given something to humanity have been the recognition of the Nobel prize. But infinitely longer and practically impossible to identify the legion, the army of those who work for humanity in infinite ways without even realizing it and do not ever aspire to any possible premium because they have written books, documents and communications and academic never have thought of the presses to moan “as a widespread commonplace. There certainly is an exercise of pure souls, immaculate, and this is the obstacle (some insuffiente) to spread the spirit of utility in various ranges that goes to corruption, crime and all forms of violence and intolerance. Stockholm academics have said many times no to intolerance, fanaticism cruel, and that spirit that animates persecution often strong against the weak, the oppressors against the oppressed. This applies particularly the choice of literary works that sometimes can be deadly, but never like that atomic bomb that is the most mature fruit tree of eternal evil. Do not insist on this button because it is neither a philosopher nor a sociologist, nor moralistic. I wrote poems and they have been rewarded, but I was also the librarian, translator, literary critic and music and even recognized unemployed for insufficient loyalty to a regime that could not love. A few days ago has failed to find a foreign journalist asked me how he distributed so many different activities? Many hours to poetry, many translations, many in clerical and many life? I tried to explain that you can not plan a life as is done with an industrial project. In the world there is a wide space for the unnecessary, and indeed one of the dangers of our time is that the commercialization of unnecessary which are particularly sensitive giovannissimi. In any case I am here because I wrote poetry, a product absolutely useless, but hardly ever harmful and this is one of his titles of nobility. But is not the only, as the poetry of production or a disease absolutely endemic and incurable. I am here because I wrote poems: six volumes, over countless critical essays and translations. They said that production is low, perhaps assuming that the poet is a producer of goods, machinery must be used at most. Fortunately poetry is not a mercy. It is an entity of which we know very little, so much so that two different philosophers like Croce historical idealist and Gilson Catholic, I agree not believe in a history of poetry. For my account if I see the poem as an object believe that it is born from the need to add a vowel sound (word) wings hammering of the first tribal music. Only much later could speak and write music in some way and differentiate. The poem written, but the common kinship with the music you hear. The poetry tends to hatch in architectural forms arise meters, the verses, the so-called closed forms. Even in the early Nibelung sagas and romance in those, the real subject of poetry is sound. But not tarder to rise with a Provencal poets poetry that is also addressed to the eye. Slowly poetry is visual because he painted pictures, but is also musical: brings together two limbs in one. Of course formal schemes were largely the visibility of poetry. After the invention of printing poetry is vertical, does not fill the entire space white, is full of ‘head’ and shooting. Even some gaps have a value. Very different is the prose that occupies the entire space and not by information on its pronunziabilita. It is at this point metric schemes may be ideal for the art of narrating, that is for the novel. He’s my father if that instrument narrative that is the octave form that is already a fossil in the first nineteenth century despite the success of Don John of Byron (poem was stopped midway). But towards the end of the closed forms of poetry or no longer meet the eye or ear. A similar observation may be the Blank verse English and the Italian endecasillabo dissolved. And in the meantime makes great strides the disintegration of naturalism and the immediate backlash in art painting. So with a long process, which is too long to describe, we reach the conclusion that we can not reproduce the true, real objects, thus creating unnecessary dopponioni, but they are exposed in vitro, or even natural objects or figures where Rembrandt or Caravaggio would have presented a facsimile, a capolavaro. In the large exhibition in Venice years ago had exposed a portrait of a mongoloide was a topic tres degoutant, but why not? The art can justify everything. However closer you find that not a portrait it was, but dell’infelice in flesh and bones. The experiment was then interrupted by military, but in strictly theoretical was fully justified. Already for years critics occupying university preached the absolute necessity of death, pending do not know what palingenesi resurrection or not s’intravvedono signs. What conclusions can be drawn from these facts? Evidently the arts, the visual arts, are democraticizzandosi in the worst sense of the word. Art is the production of consumer items to be used and throw away waiting for a new world in which man has managed to get rid of everything, even their own conscience. The example that I brought could be extended to music only rumoristica and undifferentiated who listens to the places where millions of young people gather to exorcise the horror of their loneliness. But because today more than ever the civilized man has come to have horror of himself? Of course I expect the objections. We must not confuse social diseases, which may have always existed but were little known because the old means of communication was not possible to understand and diagnose the disease. But the impression that a kind of general is accompanied at millenarianism an increasingly popular comfort, the fact that the welfare (where it exists, that is in limited spaces of the earth) has bruises connotations of despair. Under the so gloomy background of civilization welfare even the arts tend to get confused, to lose their identity. The mass communications, radio and especially television, have not tried unsuccessfully to destroy any possibility of solitude and reflection. The time is faster, works a few years ago seem ‘dated’ and the need for the artist to be heard sooner or later becomes a spasmodic need of, the immediate. Hence the new art of our time is that the show, not necessarily at a theater to compete in the rudiments of art and all that sort of work on mental massage viewer or listener or reader that is. The deus ex machina of this new patchwork is the director. Its purpose is not only to coordinate the stands terrain, but to provide intentions to works that do not have or have had more. There is a great sterility in all this, an immense confidence in life. In this landscape of hysterical exhibitionism which may be the most discreet place of the arts, poetry? The so-called lyric poetry is the work, the result of loneliness and accumulation. It is still today but in limited cases piusosto. But we have many more cases where the self-styled poet is behind inept new times. The poem is so sound and visual. The words spouting in all directions as the explosion of a grenade, there is no real meaning, but a verbal earthquake with many epicenters. The deciphering is unnecessary in many cases can help the aid of the psychoanalyst. The prevailing visual poetry is also translated and this is something new in the history of aesthetics. What you do not want to say that the new poets are schizoid. Some can write prose and pseudo classically traditional ways without any sense. There is also a poem written to be yelled at a square in front of an enthusiastic crowd. Gio occurs mainly in countries where authoritarian regimes. And like athletes of poetic vocalista not sempresono inexperienced talent. Let me cite one case, and I apologize if it is also a chance that initial concerns personally. But the fact, if true, shows that now exist in cohabitation two poems, one of which is for immediate consumption and die just expressed, while the other can sleep its quiet sleep. One day you risvegliera, if it has the strength to do so.

The real poetry is similar to certain frameworks which ignores the owner and only started a few knows. However poetry does not live only in books or in school anthologies. The poet and often ignores always ignore its true destination. I make a small personal example. In the archives of Italian newspapers are obituary of men still alive and active. It called crocodilian. A few years ago to Corriere della Sera I discovered my crocodile signed by Taulero Zulberti, critic, translator and polyglot. He said that the great poet Mayakovsky having read one or more of my poems translated into Russian language would say: ‘Here is a poet that I like. I would be able to read in Italian. ” The episode is not improbable. My first verses began to circulate in 1925 and Mayakovsky (who also traveled in America and elsewhere) died a suicide in 1930. Mayakovsky was a poet at the pantograph, with a megaphone. If you have pronounced these words I can say that my poems were those found to distorted and unpredictable ways, their spending. We do not believe that I have an idea Solipsist poetry. The idea of writing for the so-called happy few was never mine. In reality, art is always for everyone and anyone. But what remains unpredictable is its true begetter, its spending. The art show, the art of mass art that wants to produce a kind of physical and psychic massage on a hypothetical user has before him because the endless roads of the world population is growing. But his ceiling is the absolute vacuum. You can frame and hang a piao of pantafole (I have seen so reduced my), but it can not be put under a glass landscape, a lake or any large natural spectacle. The lyric poetry has certainly broken the barriers. There is poetry in prose, in all the great prose is not merely utility or didactic: there are poets who write in prose or at least more or less apparent prose; million poets write verses that have no relationship with poetry. But this means little or nothing. The world is growing, what will be its future can not tell anyone. But it’s not credible that the mass culture for its dilapidated nature and does not produce, for necessary backlash, a culture that is also embankment and reflection. We can all work together to this future. But life is short and life of the world can be almost infinitely long. I thought about giving my short speech this way: You can survive in the poetry of mass communications? And ‘what many people wonder, but upon reflection the answer can only be yes. If you mean by the so-called belletristica is clear that world production will grow out of. If instead we limit ourselves to that which rejects the term with horror production, which rises almost miraculously and seems embalm a whole and a linguistic and cultural situation, then we must say that death is not possible for poetry. It ‘been pointed out repeatedly that the backlash of poetic language prosastico about what can be considered a decisive blow to whip. Strangely the Commedia of Dante did not produce a creative prose of that height or did so after centuries. But if the prose studied French before and after school Ronsard, the Pleiades, you will find that the French prose has lost that softness for which was judged much lower than the classical languages and has made a real leap in maturity. The effect was curious. The Gastronomic not produce collections of poems such as those of homogeneous Dolce stil new Italian (which is certainly one of his sources), but gives us from time to time true “antiques” that will be part of a possible imaginary museum of poetry . This is a taste that you say neogreco and that centuries after Parnasse tries in vain to match. This proves that the great opera may die, be reborn trailers, but will always remain one of the peaks of the human soul. We want to reread together a song of Joachim Du Bellay. This poet, born in 1522 and died just thirty-five years, was the grandson of a cardinal in which he lived in Rome a few years bringing profound disgust for the corruption of the Pontifical court. Du Bellay has wrote a lot, imitating more or less happily the tradition of poets Petrarch. But the poem (perhaps written in Rome), inspired by verses of Latin Navagero, which recommends its fame, is the result of a painful nostalgia for the gentle countryside of the Loire he abandoned. From Sainte-Beuve to Walter Pater, who devoted himself to Joachim a memorable profile, the short Odelette des vanneurs de ble entered the repertory of the poetry world. Trying to read if that is possible, because this is a poem in which the eye has its share. A vous too many legere, Here the passage AELE volez par le monde, et d’un sifflant Murmure the ombrageuse vegetables doulcement esbranlez, j’offre violettes ces, ces lis et ces Fleurettes, et ces roses icy, ces vermeillettes roses, freschement tout ecloses, et aussi ces oeilletz. De your doulce halaine eventez baskets plaine, eventez ce sejour, pendant ce que j’ahanne a mon ble, que je Vanne a la chaleur du jour. I do not know if this Odelette was written in Rome as an intermezzo in the handling of boring office practices. It needs to Pattera its current survival. After centuries of a poem can find his interpreter. But now I have to conclude an answer to the question which gave a title to this short speech. In the current consumerist culture that sees history go to new nations and new languages, the robot civilization of man, who may be the fate of poetry? The answers could be many. The poetry is the art technically within reach of all: just a sheet of paper and a pencil and you’re done. Only then there are the problems of printing and distribution. The fire of the Library of Alexandria has destroyed three quarters of Greek literature. Today even a universal fire could effectively eliminate torrential poetic production today. But this is precisely the production of artefacts that is subject to the laws of taste and fashion. That the garden of the Muses can be devastated by major storms is more than likely, yes. But I feel equally certain that many print media and many books of poetry should resist the time. Otherwise the question is whether it refers to the spiritual revival of an old poetic text, its current build, its open to new interpretation information. And finally head always doubtful in what limits and boundaries moves us talking about poetry. Much poetry today is expressed in prose. Many of today are bad prose and prose. The art fiction, the novel by Murasaki to Proust has produced great works of poetry. El theater? Many literary stories we do not even care, even extrapolating some genes that form a separate chapter. Also: how to explain that the ancient Chinese poetry resists all translations while the European poetry is chained to its original language? Perhaps the phenomenon is explained by the fact that we believe to read Po Chu-i instead read the wonderful counterfeiter Arthur Waley? It could multiply the questions with the only result that not only poetry, but throughout the world of artistic expression or self-styled it entered into a crisis that is closely linked to the human condition, our existence of human beings, our certainty or illusion to believe privileged beings, the only ones who believe masters of their fate and destiny of a warehouse that no other living creature can boast. Needless therefore wonder what will be the fate of the arts. E ‘as asking whether the man of tomorrow, a tomorrow maybe lon-tanissimo can solve the tragic contradictions in which we discuss from day of Creation (and if such a day, which can be a vast, can still talk).

Book(s):

Ossi Di Seppia

Photo Gallery: