Saturday, 24 December 2016

snow





6 comments:

  1. Pentru ca aceasta postare m-a dus imediat cu gandul la un ceai preparat, gustat si apoi baut in tacere, langa ideea unei povesti pe care o poti citi Numai Iarna, mi-am dat seama ca ar trebui sa "comentez" aici asa cum citesc: in tacere, daca sa ceva este posibil. Nu mi-a placut niciodata sa citesc ceva cu voce tare - nu neaparat fiindca nu imi place deloc felul in care citesc, de fapt, as putea spune multe despre cum cititul reinventeaza un text si despre cum, practic, demonstrezi ca il intelegi din felul in care il citesti. Dar nu pot citi, nu vreau, mai ales, sa citesc, cel putin prima data, un text tare fiindca am impresia ca nu il pot intelege daca il citesc cu voce tare - e ca si cum l-as instraina...
    Cam asta as vrea sa spun: simt ca as instraina aceasta postare, daca as incerca sa spun mai multe decat "explicatia" pe care am incercat sa o redau mai sus...

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    1. da, de asta nu am pus nici eu cuvinte, desi aveam un citat, tot din Calvino, l-am pus mai jos :-)

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  2. Is the snow on the left or right? ;-p

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    1. left or right, above or below? everything is the same :-)

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  3. Where is the Italo Calvino quote? Surely it snows in Italy. Didn't Mussolini love snow? Or was he tired of it as he was of liberty?

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    1. actually, i thought about posting that quote, but decided against it - here it is, just for you :-)


      WINTER
      4. The city lost in the snow
      That morning the silence woke him. Marcovaldo pulled himself out of bed with the sensation there was something strange in the air. He couldn't figure out what time it was, the light between the slats of the blinds was different from all other hours of day and night. He opened the window: the city was gone; it had been replaced by a white sheet of paper. Narrowing his eyes, he could make out, in the whiteness, some almost-erased lines, which corresponded to those of the familiar view: the windows and the roofs and the lamp-posts all around, but they were lost under all the snow that had settled over them during the night.
      "Snow!" Marcovaldo cried to his wife; that is, he meant to cry, but his voice came out muffled. As it had fallen on lines and colors and views, the snow had fallen on noises, or rather on the very possibility of making noise; sounds, in a padded space, did not vibrate.
      He went to work on foot; the trams were blocked by the snow. Along the street, making his own path, he felt free as he had never felt before. In the city all differences between sidewalk and street had vanished; vehicles could not pass, and Marcovaldo, even if he sank up to his thighs at every step and felt the snow get inside his socks, had become master, free to walk in the middle of the street, to trample on flower-beds, to cross outside the prescribed lines, to proceed in a zig-zag.
      Streets and avenues stretched out, endless and deserted, like blanched chasms between mountainous cliffs. There was no telling whether the city hidden under that mantle was still the same or whether, in the night, another had taken its place. Who could say if under those white mounds there were still gasoline pumps, news-stands, tram stops, or if there were only sack upon sack of snow? As he walked along, Marcovaldo dreamed of getting lost in a different city...

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