Eugenio Montale (1896–1981)

Non amo la poesia. Sono cresciuta con i nostri poeti decadenti, tipo il Pascoli, e col Leopardi, che esprimevano una vena di tristezza e pessimismo che non ha mai soddisfatto il mio animo di lettrice. La maggioranza delle poesie narra di sentimenti negativi. Uniche eccezioni che mi fanno venire voglia di leggere in versi: Walt Withman e Eugenio Montale. Il primo per la forza vitale, il secondo per la potenza dei concetti, anche quando sono malinconici. Testi imperdibili.

Just an odd and a mostly brilliant book, dated somewhat as cultural journalism does, but filled with the quirky and delightful pessimism of one of the greatest, 20th century, modern, European lyric poets (in the company of Apollinaire, Auden, Cavafy, Lorca, Mayakovsky, and Rilke). And I never knew Montale was from Liguria and his connection to Le cinque terre.

Very difficult poetry, at least for me. Without translator Arrowsmith's lengthy notes on each poem, I'm afraid I would have been almost utterly at a loss, being capable of responding only to surface meanings and vaguely subterranean surmising. Of the allusiveness, deep meanings and sheer density of these poems, I would only have had a glimmering. Perhaps the opposite of a "glimmering", whatever that is, would be more appropriate. Nonetheless, my command of Italian, weak though it is, is show more satisfactory enough for me to realize that Arrowsmith, for all his interpretive contribution, is not very successful at capturing the voice. I think I'll try Charles Wright's version. show less