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Palermo, You open Them 2000
"It repairs the hope/behind the door sluice."
"... the light/drink of the night."
"It paints to new/arches of triumph".
They are traces of this recent compilation of Elena Saviano. But, they are
expressed sommessamente, they are written with light feature, they are
scattered in more superficial widths. Nearly... they wished to slide
unnoticed, they wanted to dampen the knowledge of same they, had to disguise
to all their force.
And instead just they, "the hope" , "the light" that introduce
to you, make to catch a glimpse "arch it of triumph"; they preannounce the
new season of our young author.
And then the "sky that not is", that sky that seemed is not to us more, will
be able - it will have - to return is to us. And to get rid itself of the
dark, bitter tones, suffered, that they have marked this work.
Of the spleen or melancholy, when not quite the impression of
the empty one, the sense of the vanity of human acting.
A spleen
that it evokes the sadness of the Romantics.
One spleen dictated from the displeased one of a living unhealthy ".
The overcoming of which however - in virtue exactly of the timid ones,
indications which dianzi it was pointed out - Ours, to my warning, yearn
for, for to scrollare of back the own nefaria, decadent condition.
And that sky over Palermo, di Elena Saviano - Palermo and with it the Sicily
all that, to the par of our author, today wants to be redeemed, aspires to
free itself from the spleen of the decline of the human, social,
cultural values who grips it and to riappropriarsi (because not) of it makes
of the Frederic the Great age - that sky you "that had assumed the piglio
of" mildew... of adult life ", of" Miasma of spirit ", of" putrida fantasy
", that sky face to relegate Ours in the circumscribed horizon of" a
wandering "past," boat in storm "," eccidio "... here, finally, dischiude to
more rose-colored tomorrow.
Tomorrow of found again "identity", life "love", of "entire vase", in good
substance, and not of "cocci".
A tomorrow otherwise destined one, "to the shadow of the mind", to break up
against the "edges sfilaccia you" of the "stupidity", of the "daily
uncertainty", of "ignoto."
To reason of a "corteggiatore... fugace." Of a love that "Migra in the wall
of Hush"? Or that "one gets lost in... acida agony."
Of course! But very other causes are pure summoned person.
The "violences", "in a violent world".
"the existence/that it sucks/and not disseta".
"the essence of the dead women."
Patrizia, which the collection is dedicated, was - it is - the sister of
Elena Saviano; the astral binoculars of Elena Saviano.
In Letter shape "without stamp", missiva giustappunto
addressed to Patrizia "sweet sorellina", in prosa therefore, Ours writes the
touching pages more than this its job.
Little pages "even if I would want to throw of down a river if it only
served" moving, heartbreaking in sure steps, to force rassegnate, of "one
history already ended":
"spalmati Bruises of pain on sheet tired in a sfatto bed with I plant",
"the anger corrodes to me... but not enough to placare the impotence of mine
to act",
"... in the album of the memories... ours litigi and making peace in Hush."
Pages to the cospetto of the Dead women.
Considerations, exasperations, interrogated you to the cospetto of the Dead
women:
"we have not asked it are to us in this life, but when you make some part
you do not understand because of it are not to us more."
"to Not that it can happen you to you and it continues not curing and never
superficial aspects to living one life without attentions..."
"I will be able to never understand this divine plan that all continue to me
to repeat"
And clarifications, authentic interpretations, answers that are late to
arrive.
But the magic, not! "the Magic" "is not ended" if, with Stephane Mallarmč,
we think that the Poetry is magic:
"... the storm/sound/a mesto memory."
"the years it rocks to you/between lowlands and high tide/risaccano it
tires/in spiagge desert"
"It leaves me to believe/that this moment/will last/in eternal mine to
think."
"... the sky/laughs of the very little/land."
"... the evil shelters/in women absent/statues without face."
This last one, between the images proposteci from Elena Saviano,
forces to us, more than others, to stop to us; to reflect.
On the risk that every to be human - man or woman who is, which that is the
causes of the "evil" - he runs to find again itself, in the course of the
own existence, reduced to what, abulico automaton, spirit that
"sails/for tremendous shipwrecks."
And alibis could then not have some effectiveness "/enigmas/paraphrase".
There is from foretelling therefore, to conclusion of this short reading,
than for all we, after the defeat the pain the dead women, will be space
and time and... sky, for the return the giving up the life.
Elena Saviano it knows to indicate the way.
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