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I, Elena
I have read the backs of Elena Saviano like notes of per diem the intimate one of a woman who, more than the truth of the century, continues living one its personal familiar custom of affections that indissolubilmente tie it to the life of the father who has been To who has known gives the courage to me the force and the honesty of my actions: the wisdom and the truth in the thought. The purity in acting and the goodness in helping. To who day fought after day treading on the sudiciume dressed of man. To my father (Dedication) Of that paternal lesson nutre the existence of Elena, than schiva those "orribile dirt dressed of man", when in the solitudine of its room it lets to transport from alive of the passages the emotions and all the world them succeeds of blow stranger. A solitudine that the memory of the past melancholy vein, but is not strange to sterility of nostalgia, if it has the pride of just I, of being, that is, Elena, tenaciously berthed to its will and its feelings. In a society that guazza in the well-being of the consumismo, in which hour it is forced to move, one does not let to capture from the appearances of one euforica happiness, than not flattery to renounce to the dream that it caress to the garrison of the "force and goodness" of the father and that constitutes the solo its present to its sets in action, with which it shares the destiny of the others to the common adventure of the man on the earth. A condition that concurs them to watch the things and the men that it encircle with sure maternal tenderness, if can be still astonished to the punctual one to repeat itself of the seasons and to affect itself to the spontaneous of the child who clearance, finally, runs to embrace the mother, in order to express them all the its love. They are the moments in which the nature of the things and of the men it provokes in she the sincerity and the innocence that is of every birth and that gives back to the voice white woman to them of its childness: Lì, in that room, furnished of little things, with one sweet and gentle atmosphere I catch a glimpse the sorridente face of a child that clearance with its toys. That that I see is the joy, it wants of living that sprizza from every its gesture. (Life) They close on the same rhythm of the poetico text two letters that are like the testimony of an inner suffering, in which the anguish of the solitudine and the force of the love are contrasted. Before (the lost Life) raises the "its if beyond same spirit" and, in the "effort of ridestare the memories", she lead in the squallore of the disappointments; the other (For disowning) provokes to them, instead, the memories of the happy time, the time of a love that invests it like in a "gentle mystery" that stordisce it and it transports it in the current of a river in flood in which wheels its acute desire to overflow the loved one of its words, that the love is its desire of living.
Giuseppe Cottone |
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Copyright © 2005 - Ultimo aggiornamento: 1 dicembre, 2009 10.20.19elesaviano@hotmail.it |
