After the Sanremo Roberto Vecchioni I think it appropriate to post to my address book Scripta manent , just a step in the same Vecchioni. Step one of my favorites, based on his novel of time travel property. These are the last pages of the novel, which is told in the separation, grinding and painful, including Sappho and her pupil Anattoria.
The step is in the words of Sappho while reflecting on the imminent departure of his favorite student, whom she loves as only a poet can do. These are words that have the bitterness of nostalgia for what she will not have more, but also the sweetness of the memory of what has been, and are, also, words that suggest a better picture of what is the relationship between two people, talking about what happens when two people exchange not love each other, but when two people loving each other, give birth in the world something new that was not there before. Speak these words, the power and obstinacy of that bond.
But most of all, the passage teaches a beautiful thing: that when two people separate, the suffering they cause depends on the person who is not from that part. Who is, in fact, must accept the expulsion, which was already accepted by those who leave, just because part! For those who remain separate and a new status, while for those already familiar part is a reality.
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"When two are left, not part of who he is: part of those who remain. Who leaves had started long before. Apparently she has to take the ship, she to move: but a false move, her, it's as if I were to walk backwards without realizing it. For her there is no departure, is firm in her new love - does not change was his soul, serene, at anchor, the desire. It is those who remain, however, the only starting, changing conditions, form of life, days, vigils, jerks. And who is not to find himself more in that place, known in the geography of strokes and thoughts, and must break up, leave, change its name to the love that does not recognize. And who remains the only starting. "
This, no other thought, moved to Sappho in the chest, the night he greeted Anattoria, the Achaean, the beautiful and the last garland intertwined because remember, even with the man. A man carried it off: a man and a ship. From there, from the beach of Mytilene, hundreds, thousands had seen passing ships and all war.
"Men go to sea because they are like the sea, storm and passion, wave uncertain, doubtful: too uncertain goal, and never the last. Men are not that anger in order to discover all of creeping everywhere, like the sea, the false, gentle caress of foam, when the wind of the heart, at times, calms down, and have the inconsistency of the sea, the long song violence and illusion of a drum beaten up sacrifice. And have no color, like the sea. Why the sea is nothing but a reflection of the sky, a sky turned, and through this reflection on the contrary the truth and the life. And not enough in themselves, should have more things: wealth, empires, slave power. No one else should be all that is not theirs: break, destroy, destroy what they can not have. And the sky. Maybe the sky is us. We do not reflect the light, taking color elsewhere, we are color. Do not move livid storms and impassable, we are short time or black confess agonies, but more, much more tender, and endless blue cradle song, work and poetry. But perhaps I'm thinking that just because you leave. I think so just because you leave me. "
And the man was a young man was handsome el'avrebbe flow away, in Lydia, Sardis, dancing rump of spotted horses, and it was beautiful Anattoria that evening, high in the long veil, fine, poignant the folds of the chiton and double face, which is now looking the sea, now the foot of Sappho.
"I love you," he said suddenly Anattoria.
"This will never be your husband: this know love. I feel like dying the idea of \u200b\u200bhis caresses on your skin and even more smiles, yours, to his return. There is no music, no red sunset that I can calm down, there is one thing, one, that I can listen to the beauty it had before, when he confused the uncertain reading of your lips on my lips . There is a god who can dart or wash water, there is Aphrodite who can give me, inimitable, that your fire: but this I know, that as he will have, as you wish, you cover and indignant , as you might expect, known to the beat, the sounds of his steps and breathe in the smell and the absence of expectation, as blood runs through your veins faster and turn into cry most beautiful in the moment: you're not him, and he is not you. But I speak and your voice, move your hands and your, your my eye, your thoughts grow on me, and even dreams are dreams of Anattoria. And I would give life and death because I do not torment of this presence. Essert and not having you Here is the torment, why else would have you, a thousand times and only have you. Have you, hold you up to hurt you, as would a drunken soldier, deaf to the screams, powerful assault and river. No, no, no. It was breath between us and tenderness. But together is so small and superhuman posting this: this deep in the earth, so unknown to all, any point of pain. When a man loses a love, you lose someone, something. We are not granted: you do not get you alone, but the world we lived without sleep, like the gods. Anattoria not lose, I lose the universe that we were. Detached part, what remains of the soul can not live with himself crumbles, discards, is dust. " Already
of other sounds, other sounds, voices, footsteps to dance, and already in more laughter filled the beach: giungevan travel companions barefoot, in loud and obtrusive happiness together in a choir celebrate the bride.
The moon gave a start, suddenly disappeared and all seemed dark dream dawn when you're even more afraid.
"I love you," whispered Sappho walking backwards.
Roberto Vecchioni, Travel time property
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