Tuesday, 11 March 2014

FIRST REPORT ON THE EARTH BY "SPECIAL REPORTER" FROM THE MOON: A NOVELLA BY ALBERTO MORAVIA English translation by Stefi.



First report on the Earth by “Special Reporter” from the Moon: a novella by Alberto Moravia (Racconti Surrealistici e Satirici)


Primo rapporto sulla Terra dell' “Inviato Speciale” della Luna



Strange country. It is inhabited by two distinct races, both morally and, to some extent, physically: the race of the so-called poor and that of the so-called rich. These two words, rich and poor, are obscure to us, and due to our inadequate knowledge of the language of this country, we were not able to verify their meaning. However, our information mostly comes from the rich, far more approachable, talkative and hospitable than the poor.
The rich say that the poor have come from nobody knows where, have settled in this country from time immemorial and, since then, have done nothing but reproduce, always maintaining unchanged their unpleasant character. Nobody, after having familiarized with their character, could not deplore it and disagree with the rich. First of all, the poor don't like cleanliness and beauty. Their clothes are filthy and ragged, their houses squalid, their furniture worn-out and ugly. But due to their strange and perverse tastes, they seem to prefer rags to new clothes, poor houses to villas and palaces, inexpensive furnishings to designer items.
Who in fact, the rich ask, has ever seen a poor person dressed nicely and living in a beautiful house with luxury decorations?
What is more, the poor don't like culture. You hardly ever see a poor person reading a book and going to a museum or a concert. The poor know nothing of the arts and they easily take an imitative painting for a masterpiece, a statuette from Lucca for one of Praxiteles' works, a vulgar popular song for a prelude of Bach. If it were for them, the Muses, who offer some sort of consolation to men, would have long abandoned the world.
As far as entertainment is concerned, the rich explain that the poor engage in the most unsophisticated activities one could imagine: drinks, popular dances, bocce or ball games, boxing matches and other similar pastimes. As a matter of fact, the rich affirm, the poor prefer ignorance to culture.
Furthermore, the poor hate nature. During the warm season, the rich travel, go to the beach, the countryside, the mountains. They find it rejuvenating for the body and the mind. They enjoy the nice blue water, the pure air and the mountain tranquillity. The poor, on the other hand, utterly refuse to leave their squalid neighbourhoods. They don't care about seasonal changes, nor do they feel the need to mitigate the cold weather with the warm, and the warm with the cold. They prefer the municipal pools to the sea, the dirty suburban fields to the countryside, and their own balconies to the mountains. Now, the rich wonder, how can you not love nature?
At least, while remaining in town, the poor could lead a social life. Not at all. The only gathering place that they seem to know are the so-called factories. And these factories are the gloomiest place imaginable: sinister vessels made of cement and glass, populated by deafening machines, smoky and dirty, ice-cold in the winter and burning hot in the summer.
There are even some poor people who don't live in the city but in the loneliness of the countryside. Their only occupation, as well as pastime apparently, is to turn over soil by means of primitive and heavy iron tools, from dawn to dusk, during all seasons, rain or shine. And to think, the rich say, that there would be plenty of other things to do in this world, much more intelligent and pleasant.
There are likewise even more extravagant poor people who prefer darkness to sunlight, and the bowels of the earth to the sky. They sink into very deep tunnels, and down there, in the darkness, they derive pleasure from extracting rocks. These underground places are called mines. The thought of going down into a mine would never even enter the mind of a rich person.
All this is described by the poor as “work”, another term whose meaning is obscure and incomprehensible to us. The poor are so fond of this work that, for some reason that we were not able to verify, when the factories are closed and the mines inactive, they protest, scream and threaten to start riots and violent actions. As the rich say, how can anyone understand such behaviour? And wouldn't it be easier, more desirable and comfortable to participate in some social gathering or respectable circle?
Furthermore, as far as food is concerned, the poor don't know about delicious dishes, aged wines and delicate desserts. They prefer by far plain food, such as beans, onions, turnips, potatoes, garlic and stale bread. When they occasionally adapt to eat meat and fish, you can guarantee it will be the most unpalatable fish and the toughest meat. As for wine, they only like it sour and watered-down. They don't like early produce, and they wait to have green peas when they are powdery, artichokes stringy and asparagus fibrous. In other words, it is impossible for the poor to appreciate the joys of good food.
With respect to tobacco, these poor fools disdain both the fine products of the Orient and the more savoury ones from America, and they smoke this black, bitter and completely unpleasant garbage that makes you cough. They dislike a nice Cuban cigar or a delicate Turkish cigarette.
Another peculiar fact about the poor: they don't care about their health. One couldn't think otherwise considering the carelessness with which they expose themselves to adverse weather and their negligence in taking care of themselves when they are ill. They don't buy medicines, don't go to the hospital and even refuse to stay in bed when necessary.
The rich explain that the poor neglect their own health due to the fact that they wouldn't want to miss a single day in the factories, the mines and the fields, for which they have an absurd passion. Bizarre as it may seem, this is the reason.
One could go on and on talking about the poor and their attachment to such rough, harmful and extravagant habits. Hence, we shall now examine something more interesting, namely the reasons behind such a preposterous behaviour.
The rich inform us that in-depth studies on the poor have always been conducted, during all times. There are primarily two groups of scholars: those who attribute the character of the poor to some sort of deliberate perversity, and who think they could be corrected and changed; and those who think that no remedy is possible, being the character of the poor innate. The former suggest an active predication and persuasion; the latter, more skeptical, only police action, and they seem to be right, since all that preaching on the advantages of cleanliness, beauty, luxury, culture and leisure has produced no results so far. Quite the opposite in fact: despite the care and concerns shown by the rich, the poor, extremely ungrateful, don't like the rich. It must be acknowledged, however, that the rich are not always able to hide their disgust for the lifestyle of the poor.
As we customarily do during our voyages, we wanted to hear the other side of the story as well. We therefore asked the poor. It was not easy, as they ignore any language different from that of their country. However, we were finally able to obtain this extraordinary answer: the difference between them and the rich is that the rich have something called money, which the poor almost always lack.
We wanted to find out more about this money, able to produce such enormous differences. We discovered that it mostly consists of little pieces of coloured paper or round pieces of metal.
Considering the well-known inclination of the poor to hide the truth, we doubt that this so-called money could be the main source of such peculiar effects.
A strange country indeed, we must conclude.




- The End -

Wednesday, 19 February 2014

MRS. FASANO'S THOUGHT: A NOVELLA BY ALBERTO MORAVIA English translation by Stefi.


Mrs. Fasano's thought: a novella by Alberto Moravia (Racconti Surrealistici e Satirici)

Il Pensiero della Signora Fasano: una novella di Alberto Moravia


One is never too cautious when hiring a new housemaid, Mrs. Fasano thought.
Eventually, however, Mrs. Fasano found, or so she thought, someone who, although not perfect, seemed to be right for the job. A twenty-five-year-old girl from Abruzzo, simple and candid. Her rosy cheeks and robust build were a sign of tenacity and good attitude towards work; the expression of her blue eyes and smile indicated reliability, innocence and perhaps the absence of a “fiancé”.
After having briefly talked about board and lodging, laundry and Sunday “freedom”, Mrs. Fasano inquired about her past experience. Rosa, this was the girl's name, said that she had worked for the countess Folaga-Picchio for five years.
What a coincidence – the countess Folaga-Picchio was a socially prominent woman and Mrs. Fasano aspired to be invited to her house. Asking her for information could be an excuse to establish a contact, not a great excuse, it's true, but in any case...
In the morning, Mrs. Fasano called the countess stating immediately and in a very courteous manner that the maid was the reason for her call: “I know you are very busy and I know I am disturbing you... but as you know... nowadays... you never know who you come across... I am sure you understand.” The countess rejected that veiled invitation to use a friendly tone and said sharply that Rosa was absolutely commendable. “The only inconvenience,” she added after hesitating for a little while, “is that she is an angel.”
“Really?” exclaimed Mrs. Fasano, “an angel... and you call that an inconvenience?”
The countess, who was getting a little impatient, explained that she didn't mean an angel in the sense of “good as an angel”; Rosa was a real angel, with wings and a halo over her head.
“Now you understand,” concluded the countess, “that an angel is always an angel.. out of the house maybe.. but in the house... we took her in for five years, also considering she is an orphan... but eventually we had to let her go... you can try though... it may work out for you.” The countess briefly added a couple of more things, and then cutting the conversation short, said bye and hung up.

Once having obtained the information desired, Mrs. Fasano reflected on the advantages and disadvantages of the situation. Rosa was an angel and this was a great inconvenience according to the countess, and although she wasn't very familiar with angels, she certainly didn't have any good reason to question the words of the countess.
She was good at her job, however, as the countess had confirmed.
Just to be certain, Mrs. Fasano decided to talk about it with her husband, who was brief and rather brutal: “Whether or not she is an angel is none of my business... as long as she irons my pants, polishes my shoes and answers the door.”
After a long hesitation, Mrs. Fasano decided to offer the girl a probationary period. But she wanted to make sure to take advantage, here and there, of this unusual situation. “I will take you in,” she said to Rosa, “but the countess Folaga-Picchio told me you are an angel...” she paused for a moment hoping that Rosa would deny it; but Rosa just blushed and lowered her gaze, “and so you understand that I can't offer you as much as I offered the others... you must be content with a thousand lira less.”
“As you wish, Madam,” said the angel gently.
After a few days, Mrs. Fasano realized that she didn't like angels at all, in fact she felt a strong aversion towards them. Mrs. Fasano vented her feelings of aversion by deliberately giving Rosa the hardest time possible. For instance, after Rosa had swept the floor in the living room, Mrs. Fasano pretended to notice a speck of dust somewhere and made her clean again, this time on her knees and with her hands, while she stood nearby pointing out the dirty spots; the brass utensils were never shiny enough for her and the windows had to be cleaned by stepping on the window sill.
“You are filthy,” Mrs. Fasano went on repeating all day, “you are so filthy.” Not to mention when Mrs. Fasano got dressed: she had cruel demands, and just to choose and put on her socks she had poor Rosa get down on her knees with her bare foot on her lap for a good half hour.
But, as everyone knows, angels are patient; and Rosa truly excelled at this virtue. Mrs. Fasano, after waiting in vain for Rosa to make a mistake when performing her tasks, and after finding her truly perfect, came to the conclusion that the only, yet great inconvenience, was precisely that the girl was an angel. But how did this inconvenience show? And how could she use it to her advantage?
One Sunday morning when Rosa was out, Mrs. Fasano went to her room and searched meticulously the three dresser's drawers and the small fabric suitcase, only to find one dress, her only change of clothes, some shabby linens and a few other rags.
Those ragged clothes did not seem fitting for an angel, nor did the wooden brush and the half broken comb, which composed all of Rosa's toiletries. Her room, furthermore, did not smell like angel, but rather of inexpensive violet soap.
Therefore, Mrs. Fasano decided to spy on Rosa. She vaguely told herself that if the angel spread her wings when she was alone, by pulling them out of her shoulders as you pull your legs out of the gaming tables, that would be enough to fire her: you don't belong in a respectable house if you have wings, despite the fact that they may be hidden.
Mrs. Fasano hid behind Rosa's window, in the garden: she saw her getting undressed, brushing her hair and arranging it in a braid, putting on a long nightgown, sneaking in bed and turning off the light, but no wings. Even the halo, typical of angels, would be a good pretext to send Rosa away: “You can't serve meals with a halo, it simply can't be done... you have your lace bonnet and you must be content with that...”. But however hard Mrs. Fasano looked, she couldn't see any halo.
Nonetheless, Mrs. Fasano was certain: Rosa was definitely an angel. She didn't know why, as she sometimes said to her husband, but there was something about that girl, a number of things... a certain air... One day Mrs. Fasano finally told her husband: “I decided to fire Rosa... she may be good, she may be perfect... but I don't want angels in my house.”
And so Rosa was sent away. Mrs. Fasano said a few words to comfort Rosa when she saw tears in her eyes. Also, she wanted to make sure not to be misunderstood: “My dear,” she added, “you are not stupid and I am sure you understand... you have many good qualities, you are serious, hard working, honest... but you are an angel... this will always keep you from working in respectable households for long periods of time.” Having said that, Mrs. Fasano agreed to writing a good reference letter for Rosa, without mention of the angel matter.
A few days later, Mrs. Avocetta phoned to find out more about Rosa. “She is good,” answered Mrs. Fasano, “very good...but I must warn you... she is an angel.”




- The end -   

Wednesday, 5 February 2014

EVIL from Friedrich Nietzsche “The Gay Science” [section 19]



Evil. Examine the lives of the best and more fruitful men and peoples, and ask yourselves whether a tree, if it is to grow proudly into the sky, can do without bad weather and storms: whether unkindness and opposition from without, whether some sort of hatred, envy, obstinacy, mistrust, severity, greed and violence do not belong to the favouring circumstances without which a great increase even in virtue is hardly possible. The poison which destroys the weaker nature strengthens the stronger – and he does not call it poison, either.

(English translation by R.J. Hollingdale)




Il Male. Esaminate le vite degli uomini e dei popoli migliori e maggiormente produttivi, e domandatevi se un albero che debba con orgoglio innalzarsi maestoso al cielo possa rinunciare ad avversità e tempeste: se scorrettezza e opposizione dall'esterno, se una qualche forma di odio, invidia, ostinatezza, diffidenza, severità, avidità e violenza non facciano parte delle circostanze favorevoli senza le quali un notevole accrescimento persino in virtù sarebbe quasi impossibile. Il veleno che distrugge l'animo debole rafforza quello forte – ed egli non lo chiama neppure veleno.


(Italian translation by Stefi)

Tuesday, 4 February 2014

THE SILENCE OF TIBERIUS: A NOVELLA BY ALBERTO MORAVIA English translation by Stefi - Thank you to those who took the time to review my drafts and share their valuable comments.


The Silence of Tiberius: a novella by Alberto Moravia (Racconti Surrealistici e Satirici)

Il Silenzio di Tiberio: una novella di Alberto Moravia


Tiberius's silence lived on prophecies rather than memories. By then, there was no time for memories, death was not far; and after all, what could he remember, a man like him who lived without sadness or joy, but not without a scornful annoyance, and in the continuous sullen fulfillment of his own duties? The time of Silla, Lucullo and Caesar was over: a time when wars were gloriously personal and commanders, after laying down their swords, were concerned with creating an eternally victorious image for themselves with commentaries as well as with battles. Now wars were fought in the name of the empire and not for oneself, to keep a peace that everyone wished would be eternal, rather than to conquer; and they were harsh, unpoetic, almost bureaucratic. And Tiberius, who had won nearly as many battles as Caesar, knew it well. It was therefore better to turn away from the past and look at his future as an old man; a short future if he thought of his imminent death, yet vast and eternal if he listened to some of his own intimate suggestions. In the hottest summer days when under the immobile scorching sun the soil crumbled like clay uncovering the rocky coast, and the lizards wriggled furtively along the ardent cracks, and the sullen plants no longer gave shade, and the cicadas themselves stopped singing, and the borders of the sea and sky were wrapped in a white vapour similar to that rising from a boiler full of boiling water, Tiberius with his dark and dry limbs wrapped in a snow-white toga, was sitting in the terrace of his villa in the shade of a pergola looking at the sea. Not the finished and familiar sea of the Gulf of Naples with its two vague blue promontories, the small chalky agglomeration of houses gathered at the foot of the mountain and the white mirror of the water ruffled here and there by some fishing boats passing by. One could not expect anything good from that sea: flattering and blabbing courtiers, ambitious and obtuse generals, busy ministers: such were in fact for the most part the people without mysteries who, anxiously and with their head full of Roman rumours, too often crossed the gulf, climbing, among spots of lentisks and cypresses, the uncomfortable little steps up to the villa and prostrated themselves before him, panting with their whole tongues hanging out of their mouths. It was not that sea that Tiberius, scornful of worldly issues, spied in his moments of solitude, but rather the open sea facing Sardinia, Spain and the Pillars of Hercules. On this side, the high indented bastions of the island seemed like artistically cut quartz; the calm and shining sea on which they rested seemed like solid coloured crystal and the sky a burning, echoing sphere. A perfect world absorbed in its own harmony giving the idea of an anxious portent about to happen: young Icarus falling swiftly from the sky and into the sea, or Venus calmly emerging from the waves, standing naked on her shell and twisting her soaked blonde hair with her rosy fingers. Now Tiberius, perhaps because he knew about human matters too well, or perhaps because of the suggestion of a mature time, was avid of portents, true portents, men turned into beasts, beasts into men, talking trees and rocks, supernatural beings able to rise up in the air and cleave spaces, walk on water, die and resuscitate themselves. Tiberius himself did not know where his thirst for portents came from: maybe from his experience of men, depressing and truly imperial, maybe from the obscure feeling that there was no use in generously giving laws, provisions and help to people lost in their passions and as far from the primitive religion of Rome as from the stoic virtue of the old republican aristocracy, to the point where, in front of so much unhappiness and evil, even the Emperor was almost, if not completely, powerless; or from the fact that human nature being corrupt and rotten to the bone, re-enacting not only the civil rules but men themselves was urgently required. Such were Tiberius's thoughts along with the idea of a portent that, through the more penetrating paths, imperceptibly insinuated itself into his mind without ever leaving him, especially since his retreat to Capri. And indeed, what better place than Capri could suggest the presentiment of a portent? After all, Tiberius thought logically, gods as much as men like wonderful and extraordinary places, where nature seemingly wants to compete with men in creating unprecedented inventions and marvels. A god, Tiberius went on thinking, does not deign to appear in an abandoned and dismal desert, or in the meagre land tilled by poor people, humility and bareness are not fitting for a god, rather majesty and mystery. Now, deep and dark caves where the glowing waves, crushing again and again against the corroded walls and inside the open cavities on the surface of the water, can render, in the silence, the noise of a kiss and gurgling throat combined; castles of red cliffs suspended lonely above the low undergrowth entangled all the way to the sea; lofty peaks enveloped in clouds, surrounded by ravines, higher than the seabirds' slow concentric flight; such and other similar arcane places, propitious to supernatural apparitions, were plentiful in Capri, so much so that one would think of it as the abandoned dwelling of some oceanic divinity rather than an island. But was it abandoned or still inhabited? This was the question. Judging from the triple and quadruple echoes answering in falsetto from afar in the rocks of the amphitheatres, one could think that this divinity was still there and that it was still possible, through propitiatory rites, to force it to manifest itself and appear before him, much like any general or high officer of the imperial administration. Ultimately Tiberius, despite his prophecy, still thought that men were at least as strong as gods, if not stronger, and that there would surely be a way to make use of the latter and bend them to quite worldly, not to say administrative, services. After all, whom better the Roman Emperor, supreme authority on earth, would the divinity reveal itself to? But however much the Chaldean astrologers worked, sent for by Tiberius from the Orient for a considerable sum, the divinity did not reveal itself, the caves were still silent and empty and no god rose from the undergrowth, nor from the ocean. Not that there was a shortage of new religions; on the contrary, they multiplied, especially in Rome amongst the cosmopolitan dregs of society – some adored Bacchus, others Isis or Astarte, and others, like the Judaeans, unbelievable but true, adored a one and only, faceless, bodiless, invisible divinity. But all these divinities seemed too servile to Tiberius; besides, nature, that mysterious nature sung by desperate and furious Lucretius was either completely absent in or openly opposed by those religions. Where to look for the supernatural if not in nature? Tiberius was sufficiently acquainted with human vices and virtues to be convinced that nothing could be expected from men; nothing in terms of divine matters. But the roar of the northern forests devastated by the wind, the glacial and foggy nights above the stormy hyperborean seas, the explosion of spring through the melted snowfields in the wild lands of Germany, such and other natural phenomena were still before Tiberius's eyes since the distant time of his battles against the barbarians on the border; and now, because of the demonic nature of the island, these memories would frequently come back to his mind as different aspects of a one and only incomprehensible reality. The ocean crushing ceaselessly against the rocks spoke the same language as the wind he had heard many years before, inside his military tent, blowing through the Batavian forests from the endless spaces on the foaming ocean. A language once understood by the people of small Lazio, yet forever lost today in such a powerful Empire. But the time was ready for the coming of a god, Tiberius was certain. And for this, every clear night, together with his Chaldean mathematicians, he spied from the terrace of his villa the movement, the configuration and the splendour of the stars.



- The end -

FRIENDSHIP from Friedrich Nietzsche “The Gay Science” [section 279]

My dear friend,

Whether or not we cross paths again, thank you.



We were friends and we have grown distant from one another. But it is right that should be so; let us not dissemble and obscure it, as if it were something to be ashamed of. We are two ships, each of which has its destination and its course; our paths can cross and we can celebrate a feast together, as we did – and then the brave ships lay so peacefully in one harbour and under one sun that it might seem they had already reached their destination and both had one destination. But then the almighty power of our task again drove us apart, to different seas and different climes, and perhaps we shall never see one another again – or perhaps if we do we shall not recognize one another: different seas and different sun have changed us! That we had to grow distant from one another is the law over us [...] There is probably a tremendous invisible curve and star orbit within which our so different paths and destinations may be included as tiny stretches of the way – let us raise ourselves to this thought! But our life is too short and our power of vision too weak for us to be more than friends in the sense of that exalted possibility. - And so let us believe in our friendship in the stars, even if we did have to be enemies on earth.

(English translation by R.J. Hollingdale)



Eravamo amici e ci siamo allontanati. Ma è giusto che sia così; a che serve adombrarlo o celarlo, come fosse qualcosa di cui avere vergogna. Siamo due vascelli, ognuno dei quali ha la propria meta e il proprio corso; le nostre strade si possono incontrare e insieme possiamo festeggiare, come già abbiamo fatto – poi i bravi vascelli giacciono così serenamente nello stesso porto e sotto lo stesso sole che pare quasi abbiano raggiunto la loro meta, una meta comune ad entrambi. Ma poi il potere assoluto del nostro compito ci separò nuovamente, conducendoci in mari e luoghi diversi, e forse non ci incontreremo mai più – o forse ci incontreremo senza più riconoscerci: mari diversi e diversi soli ci hanno cambiati! Che dovevamo allontanarci è la legge sopra di noi [...] C'è probabilmente una curva e un' orbita stellare immensa e invisibile entro la quale le nostre strade e le nostre mete così diverse potrebbero essere incluse come minuscoli tratti del percorso – innalziamoci a tale pensiero! Ma la nostra vita è troppo breve, la nostra vista troppo debole perché noi possiamo essere più che amici nel senso di quella sublime possibilità. - E dunque crediamo nella nostra amicizia nelle stelle, sebbene ci toccò essere nemici sulla terra.

(Italian translation by Stefi)