CESARE PAVESE: A POEM FROM LAVORARE STANCA English translation by Stefi.

A poem by Cesare Pavese (from Lavorare Stanca)

Lavorare Stanca (Hard Labour)

Crossing the street to run away from home

is something only a boy does, but this man who roams

the streets all day long is no longer a boy

and is not running away from home.

Some days in the summer

even the squares are empty, lying

quiet at sunset, and this man, coming

from a street of useless trees, stops.

Is it worth being alone, only to be even more alone?

The squares and the streets are empty

when you just roam around. You have to stop a woman

and talk to her and persuade her to live together.

Otherwise, you'll just talk to yourself. That's why sometimes,

at night, you meet a drunk who starts talking to you

and goes on about the plans of his entire life.

It is not by waiting in an empty square

that you meet someone, but those who roam the streets

stop sometimes. If there were two of them,

even roaming the streets, then there would be a home

where that woman is and it would be worth it.

At night the square is empty again

and this man, who goes by, does not look ahead anymore:

all he feels is the road that other men made

with their rough hands, like his own.

It's not right to stand in an empty square.

Surely somewhere there is a woman

who, after being implored, would take him home.

- The end -

CESARE PAVESE: A POEM FROM POESIE DEL DISAMORE English translation by Stefi.

A poem by Cesare Pavese (from Poesie del Disamore)

Sad Wine (Vino triste)

The hard thing is to sit without being noticed,
everything else then comes naturally. Three sips
and the desire to think alone is back.
A distant buzz in the background opens wide
and everything vanishes. It becomes a miracle
to be born and to look at the glass. Work
(the lonely man can't not think of work)
is again the old fate that it's good to suffer
to be able to think. Then the eyes, aching,
stare blankly at nothing, as if blind.

If this man gets up and goes home to sleep,
he'll be like a blind man who has lost his way. Anybody
could come out of nowhere and brutally beat him.
A woman, beautiful and young, could appear
and lie in the street under another man, moaning
like a woman had moaned with him before.
But this man doesn't see. He goes home to sleep
and life is nothing but a buzzing silence.


You'd find a wasted body undressing this man,
and patches of rough hair, here and there. Who'd say
that life once burned in this man's
lukewarm veins? Nobody would believe
that a woman once caressed
this body, kissed this body, that shakes,
and wet it with tears, now that the man,
who came home to sleep, can't sleep, only moan.

- The end -

 

CESARE PAVESE: A POEM FROM LAVORARE STANCA English translation by Stefi.

A poem by Cesare Pavese (from Lavorare Stanca)

South Seas (I Mari del Sud)

                                      (to Monti)

One evening we're walking up the hill,

silently. In the shade of the late dusk

my cousin is a giant dressed in white

who moves calmly, his face tanned,

taciturn. Keeping quiet is our virtue.

Some of our ancestors must have been so alone

- great men among idiots or poor fools -

to teach their people so much silence.

My cousin spoke tonight. He asked me

to go up the hill with him: from the top, on a clear night,

you can see the reflection of the distant lights

of Torino. “You live in Torino...”

he said “.. you are right. Life must be lived

away from the village: you profit, you enjoy

and then, when you return, like me, at forty,

you find everything anew. The Langhe are never lost.”

He said all this to me, and he said it not in Italian

but slowly in dialect; a dialect that, like the rocks

of this very same hill, is so tough that

twenty years of different languages and oceans

were not able to affect. He went up the hill

with the same absorbed look I saw, as a child,

on the farmers' faces when feeling a little fatigued.

For twenty years he travelled the world.

When he left I was still a child carried by women

and they thought him dead. I then heard the women

talk about him now and again, as in fairy tales;

but the men, more austere, forgot about him.

One winter my father, already dead, received a card

with a large greenish stamp showing ships in a port

and good wishes for the harvest. It was a great surprise,

but the grown-up boy explained avidly

that the card came from an island called Tasmania

surrounded by a light blue ocean, ferocious with sharks,

in the Pacific, south of Australia. And he added that surely

the cousin hunted for pearls. He took the stamp off.

Everyone had different opinions, but they all concluded

he would die, if he were not dead yet.

Then everyone forgot, and the time passed.

Oh how much time has passed since I played

Malay pirates. And since the last time

I swam in dangerous waters

and chased a playmate on a tree,

breaking its nice branches, and gave

him a black eye and got hit,

how much life has passed. Other days, other games,

other violent shocks in front of more elusive

opponents: thoughts and dreams.

The city taught me endless fears:

a crowd, a street made me tremble,

a thought, at times, spied on a face.

The mocking lights of the street lamps

are still before my eyes, thousands of them, on the shuffling noise.

My cousin returned, the war was over,

a giant among few. And he had money.

His family said: “In a year or less,

he will be broke and he'll leave again.

That's how the desperate die.”

My cousin has a resolute face. He bought an apartment

in town and turned it into a shop made of cement

and put a brand new gas station in it

and on the bridge by the curve a large advertising sign.

Then he hired a mechanic to run it

and roamed the Langhe, smoking.

Meanwhile he married, in town. He took

a thin blonde girl like the foreign women

he surely had met one day somewhere in the world.

But he still went out alone. Dressed in white,

his hands behind his back and a tanned face,

in the morning he hit the fairs and with a cunning air

haggled over horses. Later, when his plan failed,

he explained to me that he wanted to

get rid of all the animals in the valley

and force people to buy motors.

“But I am the real beast” he said “I who thought

something like that. I should have known

that here cows and people are all the same”.

We've been walking more than a half hour. We are close to the hilltop,

the whistle and murmur of the wind gets stronger and stronger.

My cousin stops suddenly and turns: “This year

I'll make billboards saying: - Santo Stefano

has always been the first to celebrate the festivals

of the Belbo Valley – whatever the people of Canelli

say.” Then back to climbing the steep slope.

A fragrance of earth and wind envelopes us in the dark,

some distant lights: farms, cars

you can barely hear. And I think of the power

that brought this man back to me, driving him away from the sea,

from the distant lands, from the silence that lasts.

My cousin doesn't talk about his travelling.

He says briefly he has been to this and that place

and thinks about his motors.

                      There is only one dream

left in his heart: as fireman

on a Dutch fishing boat he once saw the Cetacean,

and he saw the harpoons fly heavy in the sun,

the whales being chased and escape amidst a foam of blood

and lift their tails and fight against the spears.

He mentions it sometimes.

                    But when I tell him

how lucky he is to have seen the break

of dawn over the most beautiful islands on earth,

he smiles at the memory, and says that when

the sun rose, the day was no longer young for them.

- The end -

CESARE PAVESE: TWO POEMS FROM LAVORARE STANCA English translation by Stefi.

Two poems by Cesare Pavese (from Lavorare Stanca)

Morning Star (Lo Steddazzu)

The lonely man gets up when the sea is still dark

and the stars tremble. A warm breeze

rises from the shore, where the seabed is,

and soothes the breath. This is the time in which

nothing can happen. Even the pipe in his mouth

dangles unlit. Nocturnal is the quiet swash.

The lonely man has already lit a bonfire of branches

and he watches as it reddens the soil.

The ocean too

will soon surge like the fire.

Nothing is more bitter than the dawn of a day

in which nothing will happen. Nothing is more bitter

than uselessness. A greenish star

hangs tired in the sky, surprised by the sunrise.

It sees the ocean still dark and a patch of fire

where the man, to kill time, keeps warm;

it sees and falls asleep amidst the gloomy mountains

in a bed of snow. The slowness of time

is atrocious for those who have nothing to wait for, any longer.

Is it worth it for the sun to rise from the sea

and for the long day to begin? Tomorrow

the warm dawn will return with its diaphanous light

and it will be like yesterday and nothing will ever happen.

The lonely man wishes only to sleep.

When the last star in the sky vanishes,

the man slowly prepares his pipe and lights it.

Instinct (L'istinto)

From his doorstep in the warm sun,

the old man, disillusioned with everything,

watches the dog and the bitch unleash their instinct.

Flies crawl around his toothless mouth,

his wife died long ago.

She too, like all bitches, did not want to hear of it,

but the instinct was there.

The old man, not yet toothless,

could smell it; the night would come,

they would go to bed. The instinct was good.

What he likes about dogs is the immense freedom.

Prowling the streets from morning to night;
eating a little, sleeping a little, mounting bitches a little:

without even waiting for the night. They reason

the way they sniff, and whatever they smell is theirs.

The old man remembers how once in the daytime

he did it like the dog in a field of wheat.

He no longer knows who the bitch was, but he remembers the hot sun

and the sweat and his desire never to stop.

It was like being in bed. If he were young again

he would always do it in a field of wheat.

A woman walks down the street and stops to watch;

the priest goes by and turns around. Everything is allowed

in the public square.

Even the woman, who restrains herself from turning around

for a man, stops.

Only a boy can't tolerate the game

and begins to pelt stones. The old man resents it.

- The end - 

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 -