An excerpt from La Nausée by Jean-Paul Sartre. English translation by Stefi.

An excerpt from La Nausée by Jean-Paul Sartre. English translation by Stefi.

(...) Everyone who had belonged to the cream of Bouville between 1875 and 1910 was there, men and women, painted scrupulously by Renaudas and Bordurin.

The men built Santa Cecilia del Mare. In 1882 they founded the Association of Shipowners and Tradesmen of Bouville “to reunite in a powerful hub all good intentions, to contribute to the project of national recovery, and to keep the opposition in check..”. It is them who made Bouville the French commercial port best equipped for unloading timber and coal. The expansion of the docks was their work. They gave the maritime station all the necessary extension and by means of continuous dredging, they brought the depth of the sea bottom to 10.7 metres at low tide. In twenty years, thanks to them, the tonnage of the fishing boats, which was 5000 tons in 1869, increased to 18,000. In order to improve the conditions of the working class, they created on their own initiative and without letting any sacrifice stop them, various technical and professional learning centres, which prospered under their high protection. In 1898 they stopped the famous docks strike, and in 1914 they gave their sons to the nation.

The women, worthy companions of these fighters, founded the majority of the social services organizations, schools and workshops in the city. But most importantly they were wives and mothers. They raised fine children, taught them their rights and duties, religion, and the respect for the traditions that made France.

The general tint of the portraits was dark brown. For scruple of decency bright colours had been banned. However, in Renaulds' portraits, who preferred to paint the elderly, the snow of the hair and of the sideburns stood out on the black background: he excelled in portraying hands. In those of Bordurin instead, who was less technical, hands were a little sacrificed, but the collars shone like white marble.

It was hot and the custodian was snoring gently. I looked around the walls: I saw eyes and hands; here and there a spot of light obliterated a face. While I was headed toward Oliviero Blevigne's portrait, something caught my eye: from the top of a frame, Pacôme the businessman, cast a bright gaze on me.

He stood, the head leaning back slightly, and held the top hat and the gloves in one hand, against the pearl grey of his pants. I could not help but feel a certain admiration: I did not see anything mediocre in him, nothing that could leave room for criticism: small feet, gentle hands, wide fighter's shoulders, discreet elegance, and a hint of fantasy. He offered the visitors a perfect face, with no wrinkles. A light smile fluttered on his lips. But his grey eyes did not smile. He must have been fifty, but looked young and fresh as if he were thirty. He was handsome.

I gave up trying to find a fault in him. But he did not let go. I saw a calm, implacable judgement in his eyes. I understood then what set us apart: what I thought of him, did not concern him, it was just psychology, like in a novel. But his judgement pierced me like a sword and questioned even my very right to exist. And it was true, I had always realized it: I didn't have the right to exist. I had appeared by chance, I existed like a rock, a plant, a microbe. My life, dictated by caprice, moved in all directions. At times it gave me vague warnings, other times I heard nothing but a buzz without consequences.

But for that man with no faults, now dead, for Giovanni Pacôme, son of Mr. Pacôme of National Defense, life had been a completely different thing: his heartbeat and the mute noise of the other organs, reached him as individual rights, instantaneous and pure. For sixty years, without interruption, he had exercised his right to exist. Those gorgeous grey eyes! Not the slightest doubt had ever tarnished them. He had never been wrong, Pacôme. He had always fulfilled his duties, all his duties; his duty as a son, as a husband, as a father, as a leader. And equally he had claimed his own rights without hesitation: as a son, the right to be well educated in a proper family, and that of inheriting a good reputation and a thriving business; as a husband, the right to be cared for with tender affection; as a father, the right to be venerated, as a leader, the right to be obeyed without questioning. A right is nothing but the other aspect of a duty. His extraordinary success in business (the Pacômes are up to now the richest family in Bouville) must not have surprised him. He must have never told himself that he was happy, and when he allowed himself a pleasure, he would indulge with moderation, saying: “I am resting”. That way even pleasure, now a right too, would lose its aggressive futility.

To the left, just above his sky grey hair, I noticed some books on a shelf. Beautiful bindings: surely classics. Without a doubt, in the evening, before going to bed, Pacôme would read over a few pages of “his old Montaigne”, or an ode by Horatio, in the Latin version. Sometimes he probably read a contemporary novel too, just to keep up with the times. That's how he had discovered Barrès and Bourget.

He would then put the book down after a little while and smile. His eyes, losing that admirable self-confidence, would become dreamy. He would say: “How simple and difficult it is to do one's duty.”

He had never had second thoughts: he was a leader.

Other leaders were hanging on the wall; nothing but leaders. That handsome verdigris old man sitting in his armchair was a leader too. His white waistcoat matched exquisitely his silver hair (these portraits, painted mostly for the purpose of moral formation and with the utmost attention to exact details, were however not exempt from artistic inclination). He rested his long fine hand on the head of a little boy; an open book lay on his knees wrapped in a blanket. But his eyes wandered faraway. Everything that was invisible to the young, he could see. His name was written on a golden plate under his portrait: it must have been Pacôme, or Parrotin, or Chaigneau. I did not check. For his family, for that child, and for him, he was just Grandfather; if he had deemed it appropriate to instruct his grandson about his future duties, he would have spoken in the third person:

“You must promise your Grandfather to be good, my dear, and to study hard next year; your Grandfather may no longer be here next year.” At the sunset of his life, he lavished indulgent kindness on everyone. Even I would have received his grace, had he seen me, but I was invisible to his eyes. He would have thought that I too had grandparents once. He did not demand anything: one has no more desires at that age. Nothing, except for people to lower their voice slightly when he entered the room; except for them to show a hint of affection and respect on their face when he walked by; nothing except for his granddaughter to say at times: “Dad is extraordinary, he is the youngest of us all”; except for being the only one who could calm his grandson's tantrums and then place his hands on his head and say: “Only Grandfather knows how to cure these great sorrows”; nothing except for his son to turn to him for advice on delicate matters several times a year; nothing else, finally, but to feel serene, peaceful and infinitely good. The hand of this old gentleman must have rested very lightly on the boy's head: a blessing almost. What could he be thinking about? About his honourable past that gave him the right to talk about anything and to have the last word, always. I had not thought deeply enough the other day: Experience is a lot more than a defense against death, it is a right: the right of old men.

(...)

- The End -  

THE TREE IN THE HOUSE: A NOVELLA BY ALBERTO MORAVIA. English translation by Stefi.

The Tree in the House: a novella by Alberto Moravia (Racconti Surrealisti e Satirici)

L'Albero in casa

Odenato and his wife Carina continually debated whether to live in the country or in the city. Odenato, a disciplined and studious man, had a preference for a cultured, domestic and urban life, far from the natural forces and mysteries; Carina, on the other hand, loved the sun, outdoor activities, swimming, the woods, walking naked on the beach and other such pursuits. To better describe this conflict, which they always managed to keep within the confines of their married life, one could say that the husband represented a rational, human, urban society and the wife the exact opposite. In middle class families, there are sometimes such minor conflicts, which conceal enormous ones.

However, as we said, their conflict had always been kept within the confines of their married life. It is true, they did not agree on that little detail, but otherwise they could not have been more compatible. And everything would have continued to go smoothly had it not been been for the unsettling question of the tree.

The couple, well-off if not rich, lived in an old palace in the city centre. In their apartment, among the other rooms, was a large living room. One day Carina, coming back home in the early afternoon, found her husband who, armed with a poker, was about to tear apart a shrub, in reality a small tender tree that had suddenly sprouted in a corner of the living room, between their Empire style fireplace and the Louis XV credenza, full of rococo statuettes and Sevres porcelain. The tree, or sapling, was already a metre tall. Odenato's wife had never seen such a tree before. Tall and upright, with large green leaves shiny on one side and slightly hairy and whitish on the other; leaves, in other words, very similar to those of a plane tree, except that these leaves, instead of being shaped like the typical plane tree leaves with the tips taking a shape reminiscent of a hand with open fingers, these leaves were shaped like a heart. A heart with two tips, or rather two hearts combined as one and pierced by a single arrow, very similar to the ones lovers carve on trees. This shrub sprouted up from the hardwood floor and its roots visibly grew between the tiles.

The wife let out a scream when she saw Odenato menacingly brandishing the brutal poker on the tender plant; and that scream came just in time to divert the strike which fell on the Louis XV credenza instead and broke its glass. There followed a rather heated discussion. As always happens in these cases, the tree, insignificant in itself, offered them an occasion to give vent to their many old rancours. Odenato maintained that the plant, which in his opinion did not match the style of their furniture, had to be uprooted. Carina reproached him for his constant hatred of nature. “That is just like you! - she screamed. “The moment you see a tree, your first thought is to cut it down. Don't you know that trees are sacred?” To this, Odenato answered that he did not have anything against trees, but that honestly a tree in the house was a great hindrance. Without even taking into consideration that there are trees and trees. At least if it had been an oak, a noble tree whose branches were used to crown ancient warriors, or a tree sacred to the muses, or a pious and peaceful olive tree, or a mournful but pensive cypress, or even a pine tree to decorate at the end of the year with candles and garlands; but this tree was repulsive and nobody knew where it came from. And to this his wife went on: “Why does it bother you so much? It doesn't bark like a dog, it doesn't soil like a bird.. it is quiet, discreet.. no, no, your objection is purely deliberate.” Odenato put away the poker under the fireplace while protesting against the presence of the tree and under his wife's invectives, slowly withdrew from the situation and headed toward his office. He usually ceded to Carina, who was much more impetuous and authoritative than him. As long as, as he was in the habit of saying, she did not interfere with his own affairs, she could do whatever she wanted. And so that day, after having stated decisively that he did not approve of this tree at all, Odenato opened his office door and disappeared.

Carina spent the rest of that afternoon and evening reading botanical treatises hoping to find out which species the mysterious tree could belong to. No doubt it was a tree, the trunk already having a wooden colour and consistency. Furthermore, due to the shape of the leaves it could undoubtedly be ascribed to broadleaf trees with deciduous foliage. So far Carina was on safe ground. However, it was impossible to establish its name. It must have been a fast growing tree; Carina did not recall seeing it the night before during a small reception that had taken place in the living room. It had grown almost one metre tall overnight. Carina estimated that, at this rate, the tree would reach three or four metres within one week. While researching the tree, she got up from time to time and went to caress its leaves. That night Odenato, feeling irritable, deliberately did not talk to his wife at the table. But Carina felt happy just thinking about her tree.

During the next few days Carina's predictions proved right. The tree was growing visibly. Barely a plant the night before, it was already a small tree in the morning. The trunk, already wooden at the foot, became darker also towards the top and the brown of the adult bark replaced the green of the leaves. The branches too acquired form, the bigger ones getting larger and the smaller changing from the tender pulp to flexible fibre covered with bark. One particular branch stretched as far as the credenza which it had not even brushed the day before. Carina was full of joy. Odenato himself, while insisting on the inconveniences of this situation, the primary one being that this tree did not match the living room furniture, had to reluctantly admit that it was a nice little tree. That day Carina, full of enthusiasm, did nothing but take care of the tree. She folded the Bokhara carpet whose tip reached the corner of the room and removed a couple of withered leaves. She took a watering can and poured a puddle of water on the floor. The puddle became smaller and smaller and soon disappeared; a clear sign that the tree had absorbed all the water.

Then, after such fortunate beginnings, the tree did nothing but grow. The trunk, as big as a human leg, rose almost halfway through the wall bending slightly toward the centre of the room. The bark had already reached its mature look; it was smooth, soft, light, white here, yellowish there, light blue towards the top, very similar to that of a eucalyptus. The tree had four main branches: one protruded in the direction of the credenza, providentially hiding the glass Odenato had broken; the second one extented towards the fireplace, where the Psyche that adorned the Empire pendulum clock disappeared behind its leaves; the third branch, larger probably because it could stretch more freely, reached the centre of the living room with its foliage; and finally the fourth rose vertically and pressed against the corner of the ceiling.

Full of joy, Carina invited her friends to let them admire the tree. These women came full of curiosity. They had already heard about the tree, but only vaguely and they expected the usual fuchsia or azalea, or other similar plants that women keep in vases in the corners of their living rooms. But they were left dumbfounded when realizing that it was an actual tree with roots, trunk, branches and everything; such unique boldness, even in a time like this of extravagant trends. For a moment, envy and amazement left them speechless, not only verbally but mentally too. In other words, these gossips didn't know what to say or think. But soon after having left Carina's house they cheered up and started to say that after all it wasn't as special as Carina believed. Sure it was a tree. And with this? It would certainly be more original to keep, one might say, an aviary or a domesticated lion cub. Besides, added one of them, a tree was no use. Static like a rock, mute like a fish, and Carina wouldn't even need it to give shade, as the house walls already fulfilled this function. And so the malicious women concluded that it was a complete eccentricity and therefore of questionable taste.

After a week, the adult tree had already reached a diametre of one and a half metres at the base. With the trunk more and more tilted towards the centre of the room, the tree seemed to be stretching not branches but arms in the act of seizing the room. And the light fleshy colour of its bark confirmed this impression of tentacular animality. The sinewy and twisted roots sank like claws between the tiles

lifting and dislodging them. Carina, obsessively in love with her tree, had the living room cleared out completely. And it was definitely curious to enter that spacious room and find, within the four unadorned walls covered in damask red wallpaper, nothing but the tree, enormous, solitary, confined in a corner, similar to a plant octopus with leafy arms extending to seize the space or stretching upward as if examining the ceiling. It was almost surprising that such a mighty and imposing creature was silent and did not advance its demands shouting in a dark and irritated tone.

Odenato, who just wanted to be left alone, no longer fought with his wife. But secretly in his office he vented his frustrations to his friends. “Not that I have something against the tree itself”, he said, “but everything in its place ... trees in the woods and people in the houses ... what is a tree in the living room supposed to mean? This habit of bringing nature into the houses is a Nordic trend... Nordic people, probably reminiscing the still recent past when they curled up inside the cavities of the oaks, fill their houses with plants ... but we belong to a more ancient civilization ... we do not tolerate confusion or contamination ... our cities are made of stone and the countryside starts outside, not inside the walls...” So Odenato spoke, gravely. But amongst themselves, his friends said that he was weak and that in his house, as the masses say, his wife was the one wearing the pants.

It turned out that one pleasant summer night a very loud creak followed by the fracas of a deluge of pieces of plaster, woke Odenato and Carina. They rushed to the living room and the first things they saw through the large hole in the ceiling were the stars and the crescent moon. “My dear tree wants to enjoy the fresh air!”, exclaimed Carina running towards her beloved tree to kiss its trunk. “That's how women are!” thought Odenato irritated. But this time again, he did not dare to protest.

A month later the tree filled the entire living room with its thick, tangled foliage. Opening the door, you would find yourself face to face with a forest, so to speak. Leaves, leaves and more leaves. That said, it is not surprising that one of those nights Odenato found the tree even in bed. That's right. A branch knocked down the door and stretched all the way to the bed. Husband and wife found themselves irremediably separated by a barrier of leaves and branches. Odenato also complained that the tree grew around him, making him uncomfortable with certain prongs pressing against his back and legs. But Carina just told him that he was intolerant and did not understand anything. For her, on the other hand, feeling those leaves all over her body had a completely different effect. A nature bath, she said.

As fall arrived the leaves fell and filled the living room with rustling yellow piles. Carina called a woodcutter to prune the tree. For a few days Odenato's studies were disturbed by the woodcutter's axe. Finally, proud like a mother who shows off her child's first haircut, Carina showed her husband the pruned tree, left with only the bigger branches, without leaves or offshoots, as strong and vigorous as ever, and ready to endure the harshness of winter. Odenato, resigned, pretended to admire it. Deep inside, however, he thought that nature was serious trouble and that in a respectable society it should be kept as distant as possible.

The end 

NATALIA GINZBURG: AN ESSAY FROM LE PICCOLE VIRTU'. English translation by Stefi.

The Small Virtues: an essay by Natalia Ginzburg (from Le Piccole Virtu', Einaudi)

Le piccole virtu': un saggio di Natalia Ginzburg

[...] As far as the upbringing of children is concerned, I think one must teach them not the small virtues, but the bigger ones. Not saving, but generosity and indifference to money; not prudence but courage and embracing danger; not cunning but frankness and love of truth; not diplomacy but love for others and abnegation; not the desire for success but the desire to be and to know.

However, we tend to do the opposite: we are quick to teach respect for the small virtues, and make them the base of our entire educational system. We therefore choose the easier way because the small virtues don't contain any material dangers and keep us safe from any blows of fate. We neglect to teach the bigger virtues and yet we love them and we would like our children to possess them: but we have faith that one day they will arise spontaneously in our children since we consider them to be instinctive in nature, while we consider the other ones, the smaller ones, to be the result of calculation and reflection, and we therefore believe that they must absolutely be taught.

In reality it is merely an ostensible difference. The small virtues also come from the depth of our instinct, a defensive instinct; but in them it is reason, the brilliant defender of our personal safety, that speaks, rules and pontificates. The bigger virtues originate from an instinct where reason does not speak, an instinct that would be difficult to define. The best of ourselves resides there, in that mute instinct, and not in the defensive instinct that argues, rules and pontificates with the voice of reason.

Upbringing is nothing but a certain relationship that we establish with our children, a certain environment where feelings, instincts and thoughts thrive. I believe that an environment entirely inspired by the small virtues will insensibly lead to cynicism, or fear of living. Individual small virtues themselves have nothing to do with cynicism or fear of living; but all of them combined, without the bigger ones, will generate an environment not free of consequences. The small virtues are not in themselves despicable: but their value is of a complementary, not substantive, nature; they are by themselves insufficient and, without the bigger virtues, a poor nourishment for human nature. The exercise of the small virtues in a moderate way and when absolutely necessary, can be found everywhere and breathed in the air: the small virtues are very common and widespread among men. But the bigger virtues, we cannot breathe them in the air and yet they should be the primary substance of our relationship with our children and the foundation of upbringing. Besides, the big can also contain the small; but the small, by the laws of nature, cannot in any way contain the big.

In our relationship with our children, it does not help that we try to remember and emulate the ways of our own parents. Our childhood and youth was not a time of small virtues: it was a time of loud and resonant words that, however, were gradually losing their power. Now is the time of humble and frigid words, that perhaps conceal a desire for redemption. But it is a shy desire, and full of fear of ridicule. And so we assume an air prudence and cunning. Our parents didn't know prudence or cunning; they didn't understand the fear of ridicule; they were inconsistent and illogical, but they never realized that they were; they contradicted themselves continuously but never admitted that they did. The authority that they used with us, we would never be able to use. Strong in their principles, which they believed unshakeable, they ruled over us with absolute power. They deafened us with thundering words; a conversation wasn't possible because, as soon as they suspected their own misdemeanours, they ordered us to be quiet; they banged their fist on the table and made the room shake. We remember that gesture, but we would not be able to repeat it. We can be furious, howl like wolves; but behind that howl is a hysterical sob, the raucous bleat of a lamb. [...]

- The end - 

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 -