seen from Belgium
seen from Argentina
seen from Belgium
seen from Ukraine
seen from Russia
seen from Brazil
seen from Belgium
seen from United States
seen from Belgium
seen from Germany
seen from France
seen from Japan
seen from Belgium
seen from Thailand
seen from Austria
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Japan
seen from France
round 1, poll 490
click for better quality & to see the full image. sometimes they get cut off weirdly!
which cover do you like best?
artemisia by anna banti
Firekeeper’s Daughter by Angeline Boulley
remember, you're voting for the cover, not the author or the book!
Italian literature tournament - First round.
Pair number 4: Anna Banti VS Giosuè Carducci
Anna Banti
Giosuè Carducci
Propaganda in support of the authors is accepted, you can write it both in the tag if reblog the poll (explaining maybe that is propaganda and you want to see posted) or in the comments. Every few days it will be recollected and posted here under the cut.
«Meglio un uomo ucciso,» aveva anche detto nel tempo di guerra «che un capolavoro distrutto.» Le era sembrato crudele, poi aveva capito che la vita vera era quella dell’opera d’arte, insostituibile miracolo che una volta sola appare sulla terra.
Anna Banti, Un grido lacerante
"Do not cry." In the silence that separates each of my sobs this voice conjures up the image of a young girl who has been running uphill and who wishes to deliver an urgent message as quickly as possible. I do not raise my head. "Do not cry": the suddenness of these three syllables bounces back now like a hailstone, a harbinger, in the heat of summer, of high, cold skies. I do not raise my head; there is no one beside me. Few things exist for me in the white, troubled dawn of this August day as I sit on the gravel of a path in the Boboli gardens, wearing, as in a dream, only a nightdress. From the waist up I am racked with sobs; I cannot help it, in all honesty, and my head is bent on my knees. Beneath me, amidst the pebbles, are my bare, gray feet; above me, like the waves over someone who is drowning, are the muffled sounds of people going up and down the slope I have just descended, people who have no time for a woman huddled up in tears. People who at four o'clock in the morning are pushing forward like frightened sheep to have a look at their city in ruins, to see for themselves the reality of the terror of this night during which the German mines one after the other shook the earth's crust. Without being aware of it, I am crying for what each of them is about to see from the vantage point of Forte di Belvedere and my sobs continue to boil over, senselessly, revealing in flashes, like crazy motes int he eye, the bridge of Santa Trinita, golden turrets, a small, flowered cup I drank from as a child. And once more, as I stop for an instant and in my disarray take stock of the fact that I shall nonetheless have to stand up, I am touched briefly by the sound of that "Do not cry," as by a receding wave. I finally raise my head, but already it is only a memory and as such I pay it heed. I stop crying, stunned at the realization of my most grievous loss. Under the rubble of my house I have lost Artemisia, my companion from three centuries ago who lay breathing gently on the hundred pages I had written. At the same time as I recognize her voice, hordes of swirling images pour out from hidden wounds in my mind; images, at first, of a disillusioned and despairing Artemisia before she died, in spasms, like a dog that has been run over. Images, all of them crystal clear and sharp, sparkling under a May sun. Artemisia as a child, skipping among the artichokes in the monks' garden on Pincio hill, a stone's throw from her house; Artemisia as a young girl, shut in her room, holding her handkerchief over her mouth to stifle her sobs; and hot-tempered, her hand raised in anger, calling down curses with knitted brow; and a young beauty, with bent head and a faint smile on her lips, all dressed up in a slightly severe gown, on these paths, on these very paths; the Grand Duchess will be passing any moment. I begin to talk to her, without crying, beneath the ashes of the explosions: And what about the window on Borgo San Jacopo that you looked out of onto the Arno? The portrait of your friend the singer who is buried in Santa Felicita?I cannot reach her any more; or else she has grown too small, even become a babe in arms, along with the babies of the refugees who have begun once more to cry from hunger under the colonnade. The images continue to flow with a mechanical, ironical ease, secreted by this shattered world like ants from an anthill: I cannot stop them nor recognize those which oppress me most. The can of milk to be distributed in two hours' time at the welfare center, the faces of the complaining women, each one with her instant expression of disgruntlement and dejection, the two whining beggars, the epileptic looking for his unobtainable medication, the angina patient suffering an attack, the tubercular street singer, the give cunning children getting double rations. By some miracle, Angelica, the little paralytic, brings up the rear of the procession. I remember her pale blue eyes, spellbound but faithless, and how her mother the peddler says of her "That one's so religious." Those eyes tempted me with another story at a time when I did not know that I would lose Artemisia; and as I wonder whether Angelica was very frightened or not, I see at the height where her head would be, and more clearly than has ever happened before, the small, green-tinged face of a neglected child with eyes bordering on gray and dull blond hair, delicate features expressing pride and ill-treatment: Artemisia at ten years of age. In order to further reproach me and make me regret her loss, she lowers her eyelids, as though to let me know that she is thinking about something and that she will never tell me what it is. But I can guess: "Cecilia, are you thinking about Cecilia Nari?" I can feel her, with a young girl's despair, gripping my knees. I have still not got up onto my feet and now my sobs are for myself and her alone; for her born in 1598, old in death, the death that is all around us, and now buried in my fragile memory. I had presented her with a friend; I must reassure her even though I do not believe, as happens with adults, that I can giver her friend back to her. And in the sympathy I feel for her I find an excuse for myself, an excuse beyond my control, an excuse born of today. Angelica has Cecilia's eyes, Cecilia's illness; that is why I hold her dear. I recall, I recall very clearly just what happened.
the opening paragraphs of Anna Banti’s Artemisia, translated by Shirley D’Ardia Caracciolo
Italian literature tournament - Second round.
Pair number 8: Goliarda Sapienza VS Anna Banti
Goliarda Sapienza
Anna Banti
Propaganda in support of the authors is accepted, you can write it both in the tag if reblog the poll (explaining maybe that is propaganda and you want to see posted) or in the comments. Every few days it will be recollected and posted here under the cut.
Se si fosse chiesta, come da bambina: “chi sono io?” avrebbe risposto, senza complicazioni esistenziali: non sono più nulla e nessuno, a meno di definirmi una reliquia, ombra di un’aspirazione frustrata.
Anna Banti, Un grido lacerante
Le storie di Agnese germogliavano sempre su queste basi anche quando scommettevano sulle proposte dell’immaginazione e reggevano le pesanti incognite di tanti secoli. Un volo della penna e i secoli sparivano lasciando sulla terra donne e uomini simili a quelli di ieri e di oggi, incerti fra il male e il bene, spesso traditori di se stessi, ciascuno illuso di non dover morire. Lei, infatti non assisteva mai alla fine delle sue creature di carta, le lasciava sul crinale fra la maturità e la vecchiaia, sagge a lor modo, e consce che il bene, sconfitto, non poteva cambiarsi che con una mediocrità infelice.
Anna Banti, Un grido lacerante
Il suo esercizio consisteva nel contraddirsi: poiché non amava parlare di se stessa e del suo ambiente, si costrinse a frugare nel suo archivio domestico. Aveva cominciato con una radiografia psicologica della nonna scontenta, seguitò con le avventure imbarazzanti della trisavola austriaca. Un uomo solo rispettò: il visionario eroico, il fatalmente perdente. Con un curioso raccapriccio assisteva a questo affollato risvegliarsi di fantasmi che si erano appropriati della sua carne neonata, piovuta invece chissà di dove. A questo punto sorgeva il problema di capire quel che stava facendo. Infatti non scriveva, si limitava ad annodare mentalmente fatti e persone, il che equivaleva a un involontario esordio romanzesco. Di che si trattava, alla fine? Del frutto insipido dell’ozio estivo o di un gioco non proprio innocente, una specie di indispettita rivalsa sul mediocre successo negli studi che preferiva? Alla corte: letterata, romanziera? Mai, ripeté con impeto. E se si fosse sbagliata? Se il gioco valesse la candela?
Anna Banti, Un grido lacerante
