Viaggi di Versi 33 (Italian Edition)

Rollo Bancale, Fuori dalle ombre, cit.

1900 (BLU-RAY) - VARIOUS

Rivivendo il passato attraverso il protagonista, lo scrittore tenta contemporaneamente di esorcizzare i mali presenti e riscrivere il proprio vissuto. Man feels himself unworthy of God. He is always, in 14 Ivi, pp. The place was London, the time Sometimes the name and site of theis seed of a happier and different world were purely fanciful. Sometimes it had its place on map and its name was Florida, Cornwall, Sicily, Mexico and again, for a time, the English countryside. That wintry afternoon in it was Florida.

Everywhere he goes he finds symbols for his Manicheism; even Sardinia and Italy are turned into facile emblems of the good and bad aspects of the human spirit. Lawrence was more a symbol-seeker than a thinker indeed, he disapproved of thinking, except with the loins or instincts. He was, of course, that best kind of philosopher, a poet. Lawrence and Italy, ed. Eventi, impressioni, riflessioni sono raccolti in una serie di bozzetti, alcuni dei quali vengono pubblicati a puntate a Londra tra il e il The crucufixes are there, not mere attributes of the road, yet still having something to do with it.

The imperial procession, blessed by the Pope And accompanied by the great bishops, must have planted the holy idol like a new plant among the mountains, there where it multiplied and grew according to the soil, and the race that received it. Lawrence and Italy, cit. I was startled into consciousness one evening, going alone over a marshy place at the foot of the mountains, when the sky was pale and unearthy, invisible, and the hills were nearly black. At a meeting of the tracks was a crucifix, and between the feet of the Christ a handful of withered poppies.

It was the poppies I saw, then the Christ. It was an old shrine, the wood-sculpture of a Bavarian peasant. The Christ was a peasant of the foot of the Alps. He had broad cheek- bones and sturdy limbs. His plain, rudimentary face stared fixedly at the hills, his neck was stiffened, as if in resistance to the fact of the nails and the cross, which he could not escape.

It was a man nailed down in spirit, but set stubbornly against the bondage and the disgrace. He was a man of middle age, plain, crude, with some of the meanness of the peasant, but also with a kind of dogged nobility that does not yeld its soul to the circumstance. Plain, almot blank in his soul, the middle-aged peasant of the crucifix resisted unmoving the misery of his position.

He did not yield. His soul was set, his will was fixed. He was himself, let his circumstances be what they would, his life fixed down. Up there I saw anothere little Christ, who seemed the very soul of the place. The road went beside the river, that was seething with snowy ice-bubbles, under the rocks and the high, wolf-like pine-trees, between the pinkish shoals. The air was cold and hard and high, everything was cold and separate. And in a little glass case beside the road sat a small, hewn Christ, the head resting on the hand; and he meditates, half-wearily, doggedly, the eyebrows lifted in strange abstraction, the elbow resting on the knee.

Detached, he sits and dreams and broods, wearing his little golden crown of thorns, and his little cloak of red flannel that some peasant woman has stitched for him. No doubt he still sits there, the small, blank-faced Christ in the cloak of red flannel, dreaming, brooding, enduring, persisting. There is a wistfulness about him, as if he knew that the whole of things was 24 Ivi, p. There was no solution, either in death. That which is, is. It does not cease to be when it is cut. Death cannot create nor destroy. The little brooding Christ knows him.

What is he brooding, then? His static patience and endurance is wistful. What is it that he secretely yearns for, amid all the placidity of fate? It is not a question of living or not-living. To persist or not to persist, that is not the question; neither is it to endure or not to endure. The issue, is it eternal not-being? If not, what, then, is being? For overhead the eternal radiance of the snow gleams unfailing, it receives the efflorescence of all life and is unchanged, the issue is bright and immortal, the snowy not-being. What, then is being?

It is not the simple human being who puts himself the question, it is the supreme I, King and Father. To be or not to be King, Father, in the Self supreme? God is in the others, who are not-me. In all the multitude of the others is God, and this is the great God, greater than the God which is Me. God is that which is Not-Me. And this the Christian truth, a truth complementary to the pagan affirmation: In realising the Not-Me I am consummated, I become infinite.

In turning the other cheek I submit to god who is greater than I am, who is in that which is not me. This is the supreme consummation. To achieve this consummation I love my neighbour as myself. My neighbour is all that is not me. And if I love all this, have I not become one with the Whole, is not my consummation complete, am I not one with God, have I not achieved the Infinite? God is all that which is Not- Me. I am consummate when my Self, the resistant, solid, is reduced and diffused into all that which is Not-Me: I was hurrying downhill to escape from an icy wind which almost took away my consciousness, and I was looking up at the gleaming, unchanging snow-peaks all round.

They seemed like blades immortal in the sky. So I almost ran into a very old Martertafel. It leaned on the cold, stony hill-side surrounded by the white peaks in the upper air. The wooden hood was silver-grey with age, and covered, on the top, with a thicket of lichen, which stuck up in a hoary tufts.

But on the rock at the foot of the post was the fallen Christ, armless, who had tumbled down and lay in an unnatural posture, the naked, living rock. It was one of the old uncouth Christ hewn out of bare wood, having the long, wedge-shaped limbs and thin flat legs that are significant of the true spirit, the desire to convey a religious truth, not a sensational experience. The arms of the fallen Christ had broken off at the shoulders, and they hung on their nails, as ex-voto limbs hang in the shrines.

But these arms dangled from the palms, one at each end of the cross, the muscles, carved sparely in the old wood, looking all wrong, upside down. And the icy wind blew them backwards and forwards, so that they gave a painful impression, there in the stark, sterile place of the rock and cold. Yet I dared not touch the fallen body of the Christ, that lay on its back in so grotesque a posture at the foot of the post. I wondered who could come and take the broken thing away, and for what purpose. The old woman on the terrace in the sun did not know this.

She was herself the core and centre to the world, the sun, and the single firmament. She knew that I was an inhabitant of lands which she had never seen. But what of that! There were parts of her own body which she had never seen, which physiologically sh could never see. They were none the less her own because she had never seen them. The lands she had not seen were corporate parts of her own living body, the knowledge she had not attained was only the hidden knowledge of her own self. She was the substance of the knowledge, whether she had the knowledge in her mind or not.

There was nothing which was not herself, ultimately. Even the man, the male, was part of herself. He was the mobile, separate part, but he was none the less herself because he was sometimes severed from her. If every apple in the world were cut in two, the apple would not be changed. The reality is the apple which is just the same in the half apple as in the whole. Women glanced down at me from the top of the flights of steps, old men stood, half-turning, half-crouching under the dark shadow of the walls, to stare.

It was as if the strange creatures of the under- shadow were looking at me. I was of another element. Their souls are dark and nocturnal. If they 27 Ivi, pp. Meanwhile, on the lenght of mountain-ridge, the snow grew rosy- incandescent, like heaven breaking into blossom. After all, eternal not-being and eternal being are the same. In the rosy snow that shone in heaven over a darkened earth was the ecstasy of consummation. Night and day are one, light and dark are one, both the same in the origin and in the issue, both the same in the moment of ecstasy, light fused in darkeness and darkeness fused in light, as the rosy snow above the twilight.

But in the monks it was not ecstasy, in them it was neutrality, the under earth. Transcendent, above the shadowed, twilt earth was the rosy snow of ecstasy. But spreading far over us, down below, was the neutrality of the twilight, of the monks. The flesh neutralising the spirit, the spirit neutralising the flesh the law of the average asserted, this was the monks as they paced backward and forward. Where is the supreme ecstasy in mankind, which makes day a delight and night a delight, purpose an ecstasy and a concourse in ecstasy, and single abandon of the single body and soul also an ecstasy under the moon?

Where is the trascendent knowledge in our hearts, uniting sun and darkness, day and night, spirit and senses? Why do we not know that the two in consummation are one; that each is only part; partial and alone for ever; but that the two in 28 Ivi, p. Again I had to think of the Italian soul, how it is dark, cleaving to the eternal night. It seems to have become so, at the Renaissance, after the Renaissance. In the Middle Ages Christian Europe seems to have been striving, out of a stong, primitive, animal nature, towards the self-abnegation and the abstraction of Christ.

This brought about by itself a great sense of completeness. The two halves were joined by the effort towards the one as yet unrealised. There was a triumphant joy in the Whole. But the movement all the time was in one direction, towards the elimination of the flesh. Man wanted more and more to become purely free and abstract. Pure freedom was in pure abstraction. The Word was absolute. When man became as the Word, a pure law, then he was free. But when this conclusion was reached, the movement broke.

And Michael Angelo suddenly turned back on the whole Christian movement, back to the flesh. The flesh was supreme and god-like, in the oneness of the flesh, in the oneness of our physical being, we are one with God, with the Father. God the Father created man in the flash, in His own image. Michael Angelo swung right back to the old Mosaic position. Christ did not exist.

To Michael Angelo there was no salvation in the spirit. There was God the Father, the Begetter, the Author of all flesh. And there was the inexorabile law of the flesh, the Last Judgement, the fall of the immortal flesh into Hell. Paolo and she [Maria] were the opposite sides of the universe, the light and the dark. Yet they lived together now without friction, detached, each subordinated in their common relationship.

With regard to Maria, Paolo omitted himself, Maria omitted herself with regard to Paolo. Their souls were silent and detached, completely apart, and silent, quite silent. They stared the physical relationship of marriage as if it were something beyond them, a third thing. They had suffered very much in the earlier stages of their connection. Now the storm had gone by, leaving them, as it were, spent. They were both by nature passionate, vehement. But the lines of their passion were opposite: His was the hard, clear, invulnerable passion of the bones, finely-tempered and unchangeable.

She was the flint and he the steel. But in continual striking together they only destroyed each other. The fire was a third thing, belonging to neither of them. She was still heavy and full of desire. She was much younger than he. The men keep together, as if to support each other; the women also are together, in a hard, strong herd. It is as if the power, the hardness, the triumph, even in this Italian village, were with the women in their relentless, vindictive unity. That which drives men and women together, the indomitable necessity, is like a bondage upon the people.

They submit as under compulsion, under constraint.

They come together mostly in anger and in violence of destructive passion. There is no comradeship between men and women, none whatsoever, but rather a condition of battle, reserve, hostility. On Sundays the unconfortable, excited, unwilling youth walks for an hour with his sweetheart, at a little distance from her, on the public highway in the afternoon.

This is a concession to the necessity for 31 Ivi, p. There is no real courting, no happiness of being together, only the roused excitement which is based on a fundamental hostility. There is a very little flirting, and what there is is of the soubtle, cruel kind, like a sex duel.

On the whole, the men and women avoid each other, almost shun each other. Husband and wife are brought together in a child, which they both worship. But in each of them there is only the great reverence for the infant, and the reference for fatherhood or motherhood, as the case may be, there is no spiritual love. Here the union, the oneness, is manifest. Though spirit strove with spirit, in mortal conflict, during the sex-passion, yet the flesh united with flesh in oneness.

The phallus is still divine. But the spirit, the mind of man, this has become nothing. So the women triumph. I was startled when I realised it. It was as though his reality were not attested till he had a child. And he had no children. He was nothing, a shadow that vanishes into nothing. And he was ashamed, consumed by his own nothingness. To the Italian the phallus is the symbol of individual creative immortality, to each man his own Godhead.

The child is but te evidence of the Godhead. And this is why the Italianis attractive, supple, and beautiful, because her worships the Godhead in the flesh. We envy him, we feel pale and insignificant beside him. Yet at the same time we feel superior to him, as if he were a child and we adult. Wherein are we superior? Only because we went beyond the phallus in the search of the Godhead, the creative origin. And we found the physical forces and the secrets of science.

We have exalted Man above the man who is in each one of us. Our aim is a perfect humanity, a perfect and equable human consciousness, selfless. And we obtain it in the subjection, reduction, 32 Ivi, pp. So on we go, active in science and mechanics, and social reform. But we have exhausted ourselves in the process. We have found great treasures, and we are now impotent to use them. So we have said: Tha phallus will never serve us as a Godhead, because we do not believe in it: The children are not the future.

The living truth is the future. Time and people do not make the future. Retrogression is not the future. Fifty million children growing up purposeless, with no purpose save the attainment of their own individual desires, these are not the future, they are only a disintegration of the past.

The future is in living, growing truth, in advancing fulfilment. But it is no good. Whatever we do, it is within the greater will towards self-reduction and a perfect society, analysis on the one hand, and mechanical construction on the other. This will dominates us as a whole, and until the whole breaks down, the will must persist.

So that now, continuing in the old, splendid will for a perfect selfless humanity, we have become inhuman and unable to help ourselves, we are but attributes of the great mechanised society we have created on our way to perfection. And this great mechanised society, being selfless, is pitiless. It works on mechanically and destroys us, it is our master and our God.

I took a train. And there, in Milan, sitting in the Cathedral Square, on Saturday afternoon, drinking Bitter Campari and watching the swarm of Italian city-men drink and talk vivaciously, I saw that here the life was still vivid, here the process of disintegration was vigorous, and centred in a multiplicity of mechanical activities that engage the human mind as well as the body.

But always there was the same purpose stinking in it all, the mechanisation, the perfect mechanising of human life.

It [the order of the Signoria] is passing away from Italy as it has passed from England. The peasant is passing away, the workman is taking his place. The stability is gone. Paolo is a ghost, Maria is the living body. And the new order means sorrow for the Italian more even than it has meant for us.

I sat and looked at the lake. It was beautiful as a paradise, as the first creation. On the shores were the ruined lemon-pillars standing out in melancholy, the clumsy, enclosed lemon-houses seemed ramshackle, bulging among vine stocks and olive trees. The villages, too, clustered upon their churches, seemed to belong to the past. They seemed to be lingering in bygone centuries. But his triumph was only histrionic. The machines were more to his soul than the sun.

He did not know these mechanism, their great, human-contrived, inhuman power, and he wanted to know them. As for the sun, that is common property, and no man is distinguished by it. He wanted machines, machine production, money, and human power. He wanted to know the joy of man who has got the earth in his grip, bound it up with railways, burrowed it with iron fingers, subdued it. He wanted this last triumph of the ego, this last reduction. He wanted to go where the English have gone, beyond the Self, into the great inhuman Not- Self, to create the great unliving creators, the machines, out of the active forces of nature that existed before flesh.

But he is too old. It remains for the young Italian to embrace his mistress, the machine. The Englishman had gone. I looked for his name in the book. It was written in a fair, clerky hand. He lived at Streatham. Suddenly I hated him. The dogged fool, to keep his nose on the grindstone like that. What was all his courage but the very trip-top of cowardice? There was a tall thin young man, whose face was red and inflamed from the sun. I tought he was a German tourist.

He had just come in. And he was eating bread and milk.

He and I were alone in the eating-room. He was looking at an illustrated paper. He only shook his head over his bread and milk, and did not lift his face. No one but an Englishman would have hidden his face in a bowl of milk, and have shaken his rede ars in such painful confusion. It was as if one suddenly found oneself in the Tube. Lo stesso vale per gli esuli italiani incontrati sulla via del ritorno: They loved Italy passionately; but they would not go back.

All their blood, all their senses were Italian, needed the Italian sky, the speech, the sensuous life. They could hardly live except through the senses. But sensually they were men: Non posso ancora credere che questo paesaggio [bavarese] sia reale: Bisogna che ci ritorni.

Sto considerando se tenere questa casa per un altro anno, o ritirarmi nei deserti della Sardegna. Stanchi delle incessanti piogge di Fontana Vecchia, carichi di speranze che avevano fatto rapidamente posto a rabbia e disillusione45, i due coniugi avevano lasciato la Sicilia per una decina di giorni nel gennaio del Lawrence chiarisce ai suoi lettori: But I think it was because Sorgono had seemed so fascinating! If I had expected nothing I should not have been so hit. Karl Baedeker fu un editore tedesco di guide turistiche, famose per la loro precisione. Ne consegue uno stile spontaneo e immediato, in cui si riflette la vita serena condotta da Lawrence in quel periodo: And what is more, to move in some particular direction.

A double necessity then: There is Girgenti by the south. There is Tunis at hand. Girgenti, and the sulphur spirit and the Greek guarding temples, to make one madder? Neither Syracuse and the madness of its great quarries. Not the Arabs, not yet. No good at all. Sardinia, which is like nowhere. Sardinia, which has no history, no date, no race, no offering. Let it be Sardinia. It lies outside; outside the circuit of civilisation. This timeless Grecian Etna, in her lower-heaven loveliness, so lovely, so lovely, what a torturer! Not many men can really stand her, without losing their souls.

She is like Circe. Unless a man is very strong, she takes hi soul away from him, and leaves him, not a beast, but an elementary creature, intelligent and soulless. Naples and Catania alike, the men are hugely fat, with great macaroni paunches, they are expansive and ina perfect drip of casual affection and love. But the Sicilians are even more wildly exuberant and fat and all over one another than the Neapolitans. Anche in Sardegna Lawrence rileva un legame tra il massiccio del Gennargentu e i contadini sardi: This is much more human and knowable, with a deep breast and massive limbs, a powerful mountain body.

It is the Etna of the west: Africa, showing her coast on clear days.

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And the great watch-temple of the summit, world-sacred, world-mystic in the world that was. Venus of the aborigines, from her watch-temple looking at Africa, beyond the Egatian isles. The world-mystery, the smiling Astarte. This, one of the world centres, older than old!

Laughing, the woman-goddes, at this centre of an ancient, quite-lost world. I confess my heart stood still. Kindle Edition Verified Purchase. Romanzo avvincente ed una storia in cui molti potrebbero ritrovare facilmente elementi personali. Ne sono rimasto subito affascinato e mi ha portato a considerazioni sulla mia vita. One person found this helpful. Expected more from Andrea De Carlo: The end is predictable as well.

Well written, but not as exciting as "Tecniche di seduzione". Due amici di scuola diventano uomini diversi ma mantengono l'amicizia fino al fine. Ho goduto questo libro e voglio leggerlo ancora. See all 3 reviews. Amazon Giveaway allows you to run promotional giveaways in order to create buzz, reward your audience, and attract new followers and customers. Learn more about Amazon Giveaway. Due di due Italian Edition.

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Il testo, suddiviso in 16 capitoli, spazia infatti dagli aspetti morfologici, anatomici, fisiologici e biologico-funzionali specifici delle piante arboree, al miglioramento genetico ed alle biotecnologie applicate alle specie legnose; dagli aspetti riguardanti la propagazione e la produzione del materiale vivaistico a quelli relativi alla realizzazione ed alla gestione colturale degli impianti arborei.

Un nuovo testo di Arboricoltura per gli studenti ed i professionisti del settore. Nov 17, Accepted: Nov 18, Early Published: Web Metrics Days since publication: Book Reviews A new textbook of general arboriculture published in Italy G. Arboriculture, Tree Sciences, Book review, Italy.