Triste anima passata,

You who have experienced sadness and perhaps a sense of loss in the past. Your soul has carried the weight of those memories.

E tu volontà nuova che mi chiami,

And yet, there is a new will within you that calls out. It is a sign of hope and a desire for something different and better.

Tempo è forse d’unirvi,

Perhaps it is time to bring these two aspects of yourself together. The past and the present, the sadness and the new will, can find a way to coexist and even merge into something more profound.

In un porto sereno di saggezza,

They can unite in a peaceful haven of wisdom. Here, you can draw from the lessons of the past and use the strength of your new will to navigate through life with greater clarity and purpose. This union has the potential to lead you to a place of inner peace and fulfillment.

Questi "ossi" intendono essere le inutili macerie abbandonate lungo le spiagge aride.

Sono le morte memorie di ciò ch'è stato solo una desolata velleità di esistere. (S. Solmi, Ossi di seppia in 《Il Quindicinale》 I, 3, 1926)

Questa edizione è molto buona, infatti presenta un commento essenziale ma che comprende tutti gli elementi fondamentali.

Le note sono chiare e utili per una migliore comprensione durante la lettura.

Ciò permette al lettore di immergersi pienamente nel testo e di cogliere al meglio il significato e l'atmosfera che l'autore intende trasmettere.

Inoltre, la qualità dell'edizione stessa contribuisce a rendere la lettura più piacevole e coinvolgente.

In definitiva, è un'opera che vale la pena di essere letta e studiata grazie alla sua edizione accurata e ai suoi elementi di supporto utili.

Perfetta la sezione omonima

This statement seems to be rather concise and perhaps lacking in context. It could potentially mean "perfect the homonymous section." However, without further details, it's difficult to fully understand its intended meaning or how to expand on it more comprehensively.

Perhaps in a specific document or project, there is a particular section that is being referred to as the "homonymous section" and the instruction is to make it perfect. This could involve checking for accuracy, clarity, coherence, and ensuring that all the relevant information is included and presented in an appropriate manner.

To expand on this, one could describe the steps that might be taken to perfect the section. For example, one might carefully review the content, make any necessary corrections or additions, and ensure that the language is precise and easy to understand. Additionally, one might consider the overall structure and organization of the section to ensure that it flows logically and is easy for the reader to follow.

In conclusion, while the original statement "perfetta la sezione omonima" is rather brief, it can be expanded upon by providing more context and describing the actions that might be taken to perfect the homonymous section.

A Step Forward in My Search for Beauty.

I gave it 4 stars because I didn't understand too many things. However, I just opened a crack, and I'm satisfied with that.

In my continuous pursuit of beauty, this experience has been a significant step. Although there were aspects that eluded my comprehension, the mere fact that I managed to open a small window into this realm is cause for celebration.

It's like embarking on a new adventure, where every discovery, no matter how small, adds to the richness of the journey. I look forward to further exploration and understanding as I continue on this path of seeking beauty.

Who knows what other hidden gems and revelations await me? Only time will tell, but for now, I'm content with the progress I've made and excited for what lies ahead.

Eugenio Montale, the Italian polymath and the winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1975, tricks his readers with his Syrian-like speech, naturalistic paintings drawn with a lot of worry, ink, sweat, and dust... with a lot of waves and foam... It is a huge and enchanting linguistic chaos.

Montale's works are known for their complexity and depth. His use of language is both evocative and mysterious, often leaving readers to puzzle over the true meaning of his words.

His naturalistic paintings add another layer of complexity to his work, as they seem to capture the essence of the natural world in all its beauty and chaos.

Overall, Eugenio Montale is a master of language and art, and his works continue to inspire and fascinate readers and critics alike.

The wind this evening plays alertly.

It recalls the loud clash of metal sheets, the instruments of the thick trees, and sweeps the coppery horizon.

There, streaks of light like kites stretch high in the thundering sky.

The journeying clouds, bright realms above! Of sublime El Dorados with half-shut doors!

The sea, scale after scale, hurls a horn of spiralled foams to the ground.

The wind that is born and dies in the slowly blackening hour would also play you tonight, out of tune instrument, heart.

Do not ask from us the word that surveys our shapeless soul from every side and proclaims it in letters of fire, making it shine like a crocus lost in a dusty meadow.

Ah, the man who moves forth sure, a friend to others and to himself, and gives no thought to his shadow which the sun stamps upon a flaking wall!

Do not ask us for the formula that could open worlds for you, some twisted syllable dry like a branch.

This alone nowadays can we tell you, what we are not, what we do not want.

There emerges Triton from the waves that lap the threshold of a Christian temple, and each approaching hour is ancient.

Each doubt is led by the hand like a girl-child friend.

There no one looks at or listens to oneself.

Here you are at the origins and making decisions is foolishness: your path you will later trace to assume a face.

Like a vortex whirls above my bowed head a pungent sound of trees.

The earth burns, crisscrossed by the twisted shadows of the firs, and at sea, the gaze is veiled more than by branches, by the haze that breaks out from the veining ground.

When the more or less muffled roll of flooding waters that drown and swell reaches me near dry stretches: or it is an intermittent thrashing and showering of foams upon the rocks.

As I raise my face, abruptly the braying above my head ceases; and a pair of jays, blue-white arrows, dart past towards the shrilling waters.

Obliterate if you wish it so this weak complaining life, as the sponge does the ephemeral scribble upon the blackboard.

I am awaiting to re-enter your circle, my slippery passing-by is coming to an end.

My venture bears witness to an order that I forgot in the course of the voyage.

These words of mine swear their faith in an impossible event, of which they are wholly ignorant.

But always when I heard your gentle surf upon the beach, consternation took hold of me as when a man of waning memory recovers reminiscences of his country.

Having learned my lesson more from the gasping of some desolate midday hour of yours that is scarcely audible than from your moment of glory, I surrender to you now in humility.

I am no more than a spark of an influoresence. Well do I know it: to burn, this, nothing else, is my significance.

Review in Italian: https://lalibreriadij.wordpress.com/2...

In reality, this was a rereading. The book in question was purchased by me back in 2009 when I was in desperate need to write the final term paper.

I'm not entirely sure why I felt the urge to reread it, but as always, when I reached the line "Bring me the sunflower that I transplant it", I had to pause. I don't think I've ever read and reread a poem as many times as this one. I know it by heart even though no one has ever compelled me to study it.

I don't know if you're familiar with it, so I'll reproduce it in its entirety: "Bring me the sunflower that I transplant it in my salty burnt soil, and you show all day to the mirroring blues the anxiety of his yellow face from heaven. Dark things tend to clarity, the bodies are exhausted in a flow of tints: these in music. To fade it is therefore the venture of ventures. Bring me the plant that leads where blonde transparencies arise and vaporizes life as essence; bring me the sunflower gone mad with light."

It simply takes my breath away. The sunflower is my favorite flower, despite its lack of fragrance. The yellow color of its petals and the obvious connection to the sun always make me think of that beautiful period from spring to summer when the air smells different, more vibrant and lighter.

The entire collection is unified by images of elements from everyday life, and reading Montale's poems creates a sense of immersion in reality with a bitter aftertaste. It always feels as if one is there, with death lurking around the corner: everything is beautiful but shrouded in gray. Only sunflowers and lemons go crazy with light and add that extra touch of happiness and the joy of life that makes everything less dull.

Recommended? Absolutely. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. Montale is one of my favorite Italian poets.

**"Casa sul Mare" Expanded**

The journey ends here,

amid the mechanical cares that divide

the soul that can no longer give a shout.

Now the minutes are equal and fixed,

like the rotations of the pump's wheel.

One turn: a gushing of water that resounds.

Another, more water, at times a creaking.

The journey ends on this beach

where the persistent and slow flows tempt.

Nothing reveals but the lazy fumes

the marina that plots with shells

the gentle puffs: and it is rare that appears

in the mute calm

among the islands of the migratory air

the hunchbacked Corsica or Capraia.

You ask if thus everything vanishes

in this little mist of memories;

if in the torpid hour or in the sigh

of the breaking wave every destiny is fulfilled.

I would like to tell you no, that approaches

the hour you will spend beyond time;

perhaps only he who wants to be infinite,

and this you may, who knows, not I.

I think that for most there is no salvation,

but someone may overthrow every design,

pass through the gateway, find oneself as one willed.

I would like, before giving in, to mark for you

this path of escape,

as fragile as in the stormy fields

of the sea foam or furrow.

I also give you my stingy hope.

To new days, tired, I don't know how to grow it:

I offer it as a pledge to your fate, that you escape.

Montale non mi fa impazzire, non so che farci.

His works, although renowned, seem to lack that certain spark that truly captivates me.

I struggle to find the deep connection and emotional resonance that others claim to experience.

Perhaps it is my own limited understanding or different taste that prevents me from fully appreciating his art.

Nonetheless, I continue to explore his poetry, hoping to discover the hidden gems that might change my perspective.

Maybe with time and further study, I will come to understand and value Montale's contributions more deeply.

Until then, I remain in a state of uncertainty, not knowing what to make of his works.

But I am willing to keep an open mind and see where this journey takes me.

Life is often seen as a squandered waste of everyday events. We go about our daily lives, performing the same routine tasks, without really thinking about the significance or purpose behind them. These ordinary moments can seem more futile than cruel. We spend our time on things that may not bring us true joy or fulfillment.

However, it is important to remember that even in the seemingly mundane, there can be hidden treasures. Each day presents us with opportunities to learn, grow, and connect with others. It is up to us to look for these opportunities and make the most of them.

We can choose to view life as a precious gift, rather than a waste. By being more mindful and intentional in our actions, we can transform the ordinary into the extraordinary. Let us not squander our lives on the futile, but instead, strive to make each day count.

Life is this squandered waste
of everyday events, more futile
than cruel.

Fantastico,

It is dense with a kind of malaise of living, yet perhaps at the bottom, it discovers a new hope.

This description seems to suggest a complex and perhaps somewhat contradictory state of affairs. The word "fantastico" implies something extraordinary or wonderful, but then it is followed by the mention of a "male di vivere," which could be translated as a "sickness of living" or a sense of dissatisfaction with life.

However, the idea that there is a glimmer of new hope hidden within this dense web of malaise gives a glimmer of optimism. It suggests that even in the midst of difficulties and unhappiness, there is the potential for something better to emerge.

Perhaps this new hope could come in the form of a new relationship, a change in circumstances, or a personal epiphany. Whatever it may be, it offers the possibility of a way out of the darkness and into a brighter future.

One of the most rewarding and poignant books of poetry that I have ever read is truly a masterpiece. The days of painstakingly working to decipher the unfamiliar Italian vocabulary were not in vain. It was like embarking on a thrilling adventure, where each word was a hidden treasure waiting to be discovered. The beauty and depth of the poetry shone through, even in the face of the language barrier. With every line, I felt a connection to the emotions and experiences of the poet. It was as if I was transported to another world, a world filled with passion, love, and longing. The effort I put into understanding the Italian language was more than worth it, as it allowed me to fully appreciate the magnificence of this remarkable work of art.