Extracts of my pages

Bells jingle back
Bells jingle back

Behind the watery crying glass

The air breathes must and onions

Reminiscent to the heart of days gone by.

Not so far away is, of the summer,

The long claimed boiling,

Evaporated into the mists of dawn

Numbing thick thoughts .

Twinkle lights and silver ribbons

In the haunting shop-windows

Of more and more desert stores

Echoes of better harvest and vanity.

Parading the new Magi in stations

Do not bring gifts, they do not tend hands

Has now passed all shame

And resentment rises walls and divide.

Empty cots are still in cribs

Arid hearts of hope get angrier

sometimes violence screams in the streets .

Ring the bells, it’s Christmas.

by Lucia Sallustio (Christmas 2013)




Strange solitude cuts through the air
My pace, diligent on the pavement
Not resounding in the prolonged echo
Of the sweet bounce of your body.
A busy disturbance in the world
of tasks impregnated,
smiles and clasped hands between old friends.
Yet I miss your listening
Patient, your disappearing unexpectedly,
the stride of your step when you return.
I miss your playful smile
Your mockery, at times disrespectful
It is my problem and mine alone.

by Lucia Sallustio- translation by Cheryl Ries


Strana solitudine fende l’aria
Il mio passo solerte sul selciato
Non risuona dell’eco prolungata
Del molleggiare dolce del corpo tuo.
Indaffarata turbino nel mondo
Di incombenze ingravidata,
Sorrisi e mani strette tra vecchi amici.
Eppure mi manca il tuo ascoltare
Paziente, il tuo sparire inaspettato,
La falcata del tuo passo quando torni.
Mi manca il tuo sorridere giocoso
Il tuo scherno a volte irrispettoso
L’affanno mio non condiviso è solo.
di Lucia Sallustio

I will tell you

I will tell you of my silence
of my dimming horizons
of my sinking down black holes
Swallowed without resistance
Pleased to be brought
Indifferent to be abused
And of the time I fell surrendered
And nothing mattered in the world
Reduced as I was  to a dissonant voice
Phlegmy cough of a Wayfarer
Joyous trill of a tricycle
embarrassed recall of a mother
Inaudible whispers of lovers.

I’ll  tell you about my aphasia,

Longed for as a man to caress
of disconsolate apathy
of the ones watching me
of never attained coveted ataraxia.

I’ll tell you, then, that I’ve started,
but only a little and not long ago,
stuttering words again
hearing, with forgetful amazement,
warbling new lullabies
garbled speech babbling
of politics, money and love
which warn, make morbid, soothe
scars that do not want to disappear.

traduzione di Lucia Sallustio (testo originale “Ti parlerò di Lucia Sallustio)

Ti parlerò

Ti parlerò dei miei silenzi

Dell’oscurarsi dei miei orizzonti

Dell’affondare in buchi neri

Inghiottita senza resistenza

Compiaciuta d’essere portata

Indifferente ad essere maltrattata

E di quando cadevo arresa

E nulla m’importava del mondo

Ridotto a voce dissonante

Tosse catarrosa di un viandante

Trillo festoso di un triciclo

Richiamo imbarazzato d’una mamma

Sussurri impercettibili di amanti.

Ti parlerò dell’afasia desiderata

Come un uomo da accarezzare

Dell’apatia sconsolata

Per chi mi stava a guardare

Dell’atarassia agognata e mai raggiunta.

E ti dirò, poi, che ho cominciato,

ma solo un poco e da poche ore,

a balbettare di nuovo parole

a sentire con dimentico stupore

gorgheggiare ninna-nanne nuove

blaterare discorsi ingarbugliati

di politica, di soldi e d’ amore

ammonire, ammorbare, addolcire

cicatrici che non vogliono sparire.

Di Lucia Sallustio












Fine di un’ estate

Nell’aria dolce
di fine estate
si stempera ogni arsura
e il ricordo già vola
dell’indolente amarsi.


Elke felle gloed
elke herinnering
aan het slome beminnen
verzacht in de milde lucht
van de late zomer.
traduzione in neederlandese (fiammingo) della mia amica belgaFrieda Leemans. Grazie ♥

Questo il testo in inglese

Summer end

In the  fresh air of late summer
every thirst melts
And the memory flies away
of  indolent love-making.

Traduzione di “Fine di un’estate” dalla Silloge poetica “E ti torce, l’amore”- Testo e traduzione di Lucia Sallustio


Saudade in Madrid

The lament of the ancestral fado awoke her causing her a bad mood. Long before, it had filled her with longing and anger. The husky voice, sexy and rough, scraping from  the singer’s soul, forwarded  the feeling of saudade. What it meant then saudade, perhaps nobody could explain. An untranslatable word, leaving the impression that this was something unavoidable. Fate? Yet on other days the music had made her dream and wander to distant lands, back in time, at the dawn of those songs of love.
“Inés! Turn off the turntable! ”
The girl had been helping with the housework for an hour already, uncomfortably shuffling around the house while she slept upstairs. Sleeping may-be was not the right word. That night she had  fallen asleep very late, almost at the first light of the morning, and now she could not pull herself out of bed.
How many times had she bidden Inès not to touch the records, but she continued to do as she pleased. They were the collection of Max, who preferred them to cassettes, CDs, electronic music. A passion that he grew at the flea markets, around the world, or on the Internet. His old-fashioned note, through which he sympathized with the suffering of abandonment, the transport of love, the erosion of jealousy.
They were Max and she did not want to remember. Too painful. The vinyl records were still there, stacked on the console, close to the second-hand turntable of the time he, a troubled teenager, was a DJ at his friends’ parties.
She did not even dare to throw them away, though. Afraid, that was the word, afraid to erase it all with a simple gesture.
From beyond the slate roofs, as well as from the attics, echoes of other music arrived. They came first confused, then increasingly sharp. She was moved again by the notes of gypsy tears, slow and prolonged, flamenco evokes painful separation, such as hers. When she had learned to appreciate flamenco she could not suspect that she would have suffered the pangs of love herself. It resembled  artists’ fiction or melodramas of the years gone. She was a modern woman, then her story would have lasted forever. Illusions!
At first she had found the dance ridiculous and outdated, a mania for old-fashioned Max, one of his many contradictions, or just a contradiction of his country. But now she was beginning to understand that one had to have that culture in the blood to identify with the pain mimed by the dancers. One had to have suffered as much as those two  pretended lovers when, whirling and stamping their feet in the ticking of intoxicating dance, sought each other with the  alluring and sensual lithe, or rejected the other with fury, offended by jealousy. As it was happening to her now.
Once, Inés had asked to borrow the records, since no one listened to them any more, but she had  replied that Max would go to take them. Another excuse to keep them as a witnessing of the passing of Max in her life.
“Who knows what he looks like now!” she wondered, shaking her head. Max liked to change his identity, he did it, indeed,  almost to appeal to luck or to find the drive to start over every time he closed a phase of his existence. Was he brown or blond-haired now or did he wear a goat-like oxygenated beard as you could see many young guys on the catwalks and the streets of the capital city? Was he still wearing the black worn leather jacket or had he, instead,  opted for the look of a young manager, framed in a pinstriped suit and a  bright tones tie, the only remnant of the artist’s extravagance?
Inside her, however, Max was still  a sly boy, a camera pointed on the world. And the world, in turn, was for him the mine from which he could draw stories and plots for his screenplays. Max, a writer of short films that was making his way into the  cinema world with the stubbornness that helped him in every enterprise, but also had complicated their life together.
Not that she was less stubborn. Their career. They imagined it brilliant and it was already for both, but not enough. Higher and higher, with the idea fixed in their minds corroding and drying them in their selfishness and poisoning their love.
“Damned bids! *” – Scarlett blurted out. She too! With her stubbornness and obsession for the job, she had just deserved it. It was the first time since they had split up, or rather, Max had left her, she could admit it. Her friend Angelo was right and, making up with his ex-girlfriend, had shown he had understood the ways of love and living together often require renouncing. At least enough not to capitulate completely facing each other.
What was ironic was that Angelo had just learned from her!

* Translation Jobs

Traduzione di Lucia Sallustio dal testo  italiano”Saudade a Madrid” (di Lucia Sallustio) già presente in homepage

My French Great-grandmother

I’m tired, it was a long journey and I had to change train four times before arriving in this place, which has been impressed in our family’s DNA for four generations. It runs like blood in our veins and would risk overflowing if it did not silently flow back into the channels of memory.

It is shadow and memory, joy and torment. It is me, who would not exist without this subtle, contorted thread that re-connects me to a distant story, a banal story of times past that smells of faded violets, of humiliation and deluded hopes, of the scent of my skin, tanned by the July sun, burnt like the arid, cracked earth of my south homeland.

For years I’ve been planning this journey into the past, this dive with a double twist into the shadows that I carry inside myself.

The hotel room has obviously been renovated, although it preserves a classic, refined, slightly retro flavour in the choice of colours and patterns for the furnishings. I had reserved the one with a view of the piazza and the Teatro del Giglio, to help me reconstruct the story of love and passion that had made me cry and boil with anger as it unfolded, line after line on pages made ragged by silverfish. I think it is indeed the room alluded to in the letter. I told reception that I wanted the room from the othe-r time again.

I have to smile when I think that what is left to me of the great-grandmother in the story is above all this habit of the throaty ‘r, which has been passed down to me and has given a certain French elegance to our way of speaking.

I was talking about the silve-r-fish, they had devoured parts of the letters which surfaced by chance one day as I was tidying up, from the drawers of Grandmother’s dressing-table, which I had inherited from my mother.

They were in a box of men’s handkerchiefs, the long, narrow kind, and smelt of mould and violets. About fifteen letters, written at intervals of time that became increasingly close between the first and the last and covered a span of three years.

Three years, then, the love story between Lisette and Arcangelo had lasted.

Lisette, ma chérie, ma petite Lisette, lumière de mes yeux et flamme de mon cœur…”and the gentleman went on, employing metaphors and similes that must have made the French girl’s heart beat more than a little faster, surely flattered by such a refined, knowing courtship.

Poor Great-grandmother, or poor Arcangelo, I wouldn’t know which. I wouldn’t want to take sides, also because there is a vagueness around Lisette’s arrival in Lucca and her final departure from the town. My parents never spoke openly about it, if not with small, distracted mentions of that Great-grandmother, a frivolous singer of drawing-room melodies, who had naively given in to the flattery of an already-married philanderer. An awkward story, evidently, which I had laboriously tried to reconstruct when it was by then too late. I don’t know if my mother had purposely not wanted to get rid of those letters, or if she simply hadn’t had time before she died. I like to believe that she had wanted to entrust them to me, the archaeologist of the heart. Perhaps she had not wanted to cancel that love story, so romantic despite everything.

Mon amour, Arcangelo, mon adoré,”replied Lisette, and went on to enjoin him to break off the relationship, telling him that she couldn’t go on in that way, that it was impure and that God would have punished them. There was an interval of a year between the first letters and this one. Evidently Lisette had found out that Arcangelo was married and wanted to leave him, but he pushed to see her again. It is certain that by that time the affair had crossed the line of no return, that line after which all rationality loses lucidity and the mind is clouded by the heart.

The bells of the Cathedral behind the hotel toll. Long, sombre, vibrating tolls. They pass through the body, thundering like the word of God. Shameless and trembling, they must have perceived them like that, the two lovers surprised by the Creator in their Universe. And this hotel was the whole Universe for them in those moments of solitude that had by then lost their bliss and were just heartbreak and anguish.

“My nostrils are still full of the scent of your skin as I bury my lips in the perfumed folds of your neck. I am lost, bewildered, my Lisette, by the immensity of this love that does not let me sleep, does not let me live, does not let me desire anyone but you. I am adrift in the memory of you. Your statuesque body, your delicate, velvet skin, your silken hair that caresses your shoulders. Furtive lovers damned by the tolling of the bells that still disturb my dreams that have become nightmares.”

Poor Arcangelo, the father my grandmother never knew, the grandfather my mother never had. The damned lover who believed he had got away scot-free after a few crumbs of love, and instead had been caught in the meshes of his own net. A casual affair, he had told himself over and over again, a betrayal like many others during a business trip to Lucca. And instead, he had fallen in love like a schoolboy with that French girl. With her, love had been tinged with passion and yearning desire, it had been coloured with the dark red of the carpet in the hotel Universe, the green of hope and the velvet of the furnishings, and when he was with her, her eyes shone with all the lights that lit the hall and the rooms.

They had both lost themselves in that love born under an unlucky star, an unfavourable season, in a bed of chance that belonged to neither of them, and which had entertained and reinvigorated other bodies.

I can almost see them, my great-grandparents. She, tall and sinuous, a wasp waist squeezed by a corset, a little black hat with a veil on her ebony hair, long satin gloves. She peels them off slowly, with charm and seduction, seemingly spontaneous yet studied movements. An artist no longer recognizes the limit where illusion becomes reality.

Her large eyes made deeper by a bewitching black line, fathomless vortices that attract like black holes. And Arcangelo drowns in those eyes, burns with desire, he imagines drowning with his whole being in that woman he has been pursuing for days, that he met at the theatre, that he met and deliberately followed through the rooms of the hotel. He followed her into the hall, where he pretended to read the newspaper, to the restaurant, where he ate his meal slowly so he could watch her for longer, to undress her with his eyes and his mind, into the sitting room where he finally managed to speak to her.

Pardon Madame, ce mouchoir est-il à Vous?” He may have pretended to ask her if that finely embroidered handkerchief, perhaps bought on purpose to feign that gallantry, belonged to her.

Yes, that love story will have started just like that, with a lie. How could an affair born of the falsification of the truth have lasted?

“Love affairs at the theatre give the illusion of eternity, but they are paper loves and they last as long as the play.” This is how Lisette answers him in the last of the bundle of letters, when she is at last convinced that their affair will not continue. It is a dignified farewell, without the melodrama that I would have expected of a woman of her times. Nowadays we would say that Lisette is a tough one, a woman who knows how to suffer with dignity. He is the one who cuts a poor figure, who acts like a silly woman. He implores until the end, he invokes his love, promises her heaven and earth and almost blackmails her when he knows that Lisette is pregnant. He would like to tie her to him, to go and see her in Lucca for as long as he wants her, until he is over his whim, his appetite for the forbidden. Who knows, had Lisette accepted perhaps she would have suffered an even greater humiliation.

Ton amante? Jamais! Oublions tous les deux cette histoire malheureuse et amère comme du poison à mon âme,” thunders an infuriated Lisette in her last letter. An ill-fated love as bitter as a poison that slowly enters the fibres and kills. There is an alarming letter from Arcangelo, dated 3 August 1912. My great-grandfather, at least biologically speaking, implores his Lisette to never repeat the gesture that has robbed him of his serenity, that makes him wander along country lanes like a lunatic, praying to God on his knees among the brambles, that makes him beat his chest overflowing with guilt. Perhaps my great-grandmother had attempted suicide or had just wanted to frighten him into hastening his decision. Then the letter takes on a biblical tone, Arcangelo threatens eternal damnation, makes the blandest compromises. He promises to make a queen of her, they will be husband and wife of the heart, and she will be more than a wife for him, will be a friend and lover, she who taught him l’Amour, the kind which joins body and soul and will last for ever.

Poignant words, with a flavour of other times. They seem sincere on Arcangelo’s part, he would not have been able to stage everything if it hadn’t been true. He could buy himself the love of thousands of little actresses and singers if he had wanted only the physical intercourse, to lose himself in the forbidden delights that the frigidity of a wife acquired only for convention would never have shown him.

As far as my great-grandmother is concerned, after the last letter dated 31 May 1913, full of hard words to brand guilt on the beloved man’s soul forever, I have lost all track of her. I don’t know if she continued to be a singer after the birth of Grandmother Angela. From conversations overhead as a child, I know that she married a landowner from the south, and that my grandmother was born in the same town where my mother was born and where, fifty years later, I was also born. Here, in this town of the Daunia, where the wind sings through the ripe, waving wheat and the heat dries everything, even the memory of the past. The one from which I arrived after ten hours of train and four changes, the one which, with the warmth and affection of its people, restored serenity and the will to live in Lisette. A journey à rebours my great-grandmother would have said. I speak French too, I studied it at university and travelling around France and I speak it well. It was already running through my veins, it is the repressed language that comes to the surface with memory and that French ‘r’of ours. It seems to me that I have always spoken this melodious language. It may be pure coincidence, but when I speak French I feel as if I were singing.

My gaze lingers for a long time on the façade of the theatre beyond the window, where Lisette really sang and Arcangelo scrutinized her through his binoculars from the boxes, down to the most intimate folds of her body, desiring her with an increasingly uncontrollable ardour. It is there that love was born and it is in this room that watches over the Theatre building that love began to burn and was consummated in a perfect marriage of body and soul.

The sparkling evening air comes through the open window, bringing with it the chatter of passersby, the cheeriness of the tourists and the words of people making arrangements for tomorrow at the door of the splendid late-nineteenth century hotel hall. King Umberto stayed here in these rooms, some of which have been modernized to satisfy guests with an allergy to the past. Puccini and many famous and not so famous artists spent the night, like great-grandmother Lisette on tour in Lucca, madly in love with one of the audience and then married for convenience to someone else. There are no traces of Arangelo, but I imagine him to have been handsome. Great-grandfather Giacomo, instead, was an unattractive man, small and shy, who in the photos from those times shields himself behind his Umberto-style moustache and behind the imposing Lisette.

“I love you”, someone shouts from the piazza, followed by the silvery, impudent laugh of a girl. They must have had a drop too much to drink, or love, as we know, plays bad jokes and needs to be shouted, otherwise it doesn’t seem true.

Traduzione del racconto “La bisnonna francese” di Lucia Sallustio


di Lucia Sallustio

Between a day that heralds the decline

And one that mentions the morning

I side with the morning.

Be it giving up refreshment

I opt for the frenzy

Of a day that opens the way.

There is some melancholy

In the protracted lassitude

of the Sunday that ends the agony.

In  peace and prayer

There is no way to find solace.

I expect, therefore, with trepidation

The day that hinges on action

And everything I’ll give up

even my person neglecting,

If in  the fray of the new moon

Flaring promises thrill the heart,

challenge, novelty and bad temper too,

against the sweet sensation

of the first day of the week,

the only one knowing

how to tell my heart

“Live immersed in the morning

in the Beauty,  far from decline.

Ho scritto questo testo poetico anche in inglese, con lievi varianti quali un’aggiunta di un verso nella versione inglese, perché anche i miei amici visitatori dall’estero potessero leggermi. Il titolo italiano della poesia é  “Lunedì” e il testo é riportato di seguito e compare anche in home page in data 30 novembre,2009.  Proprio un lunedì!

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Categorie : scrittura


30 11 2009

di Lucia Sallustio

Tra un giorno che annuncia il declino

E uno che accenna al mattino,

Io parteggio per il mattino.

Sia pur rinunciando al ristoro,

Io opto per la frenesia

D’un giorno che t’apre la via.

C’è un che di malinconia

Nella protratta lassitudine

Della domenica che chiude l’agonia.

Nella quiete e nella preghiera

Trovar sollazzo non v’è maniera.

Attendo, dunque, con trepidazione

Il giorno che s’impernia sull’azione

E a tutto sono disposta a rinunciare,

perfino la mia persona a trascurare,

se nella mischia della nuova luna

ardono promesse di palpito di cuore,

di sfida, novità e, accetto, malumore,

a fronte della dolce sensazione

del primo giorno della settimana,

il solo che sappia dire al cuore

“vivi  immersa nel mattino

Nella bellezza  lungi dal declino”.


di Joe Friggieri

Rosalija, la primogenita del notaio Borg di Rabat, l’unica figlia che non si fosse ancora sposata, era brava a rinvangare tra le storie più incredibili che riaffioravano dagli oscuri meandri della memoria.

Una storia, comunque, non cambiava mai, quella di una delle fotografie dell’album di famiglia. Era un volume grande come una Bibbia, nel quale la famiglia Borg raccoglieva devotamente i ritratti degli antenati, intere generazioni legate tra loro da matrimoni e parentele varie- questo era sposato con questa, l’altro era il marito di quell’altra, questa la figlia di quello e l’altra donna era sua sorella. Questa era la foto del matrimonio dello Zio Karm, questa della prima Comunione, ecco il battesimo e così via dicendo.

Rosalia  trascorreva ore a girare le pagine corpose e pesanti dell’album. Le girava lentamente osservando ogni singola foto, ingiallita dal tempo, come se la vedesse per la prima volta. Se aveva compagnia, non la finiva più di fare commenti.

Su ogni pagina erano sistemate quattro foto, ciascuna inserita in angoli bianchi, due sopra e due sotto in perfetto ordine. Esattamente a metà album c’era una fotografia mancante a sinistra della pagina. Gli angoli erano ancora lì, al loro posto, ma la foto mancava da …chissà quanto tempo.

“Che bell’uomo era- riposi in pace!” era solita dire Rosalia quando arrivava allo spazio vuoto. “Quando passava per strada o entrava in chiesa, tutte si giravano a guardarlo. Aveva delle spalle così dritte e gli brillavano gli occhi. E portava i capelli lisci di un nero corvino pettinati all’indietro. Aveva, poi, denti perfetti come fossero avorio. Sguardo che incantava e sorrisi che affondavano come spade nel cuore. Quanto mi amava!”

“Che ne è stato di lui, zietta? È morto, per caso?” le chiedevano le nipotine scorgendole lacrime negli occhi.

“Molto peggio. Me l’hanno portato via. Me l’hanno rubato. Si è arruolato, è andato in guerra e non è più tornato.”

I racconti sulle altre foto di solito cambiavano con il passare degli anni, ma non era così  per questa.

“Mi è stato portato via. Me l’hanno rubato. È partito in guerra e non è più tornato.”

Le nipoti non le facevano nessun’altra domanda. Che altro potevano chiederle?  I bambini non sanno cosa significhi arruolarsi.
Assistevano ogni giorno con i propri occhi al procrastinarsi delle guerre senza fare differenza tra l’una e l’altra. Perfino gli adulti non riescono a distinguere una guerra dall’altra, figuriamoci i bambini.

Chi conosceva la storia vera, comunque, sapeva che le cose erano andate diversamente. Vero era che l’innamorato di Rosalija era diventato un ufficiale dell’esercito. Altrettanto  vero era che se n’era andato all’estero e non era più tornato. Ma si era portato via con sé un’altra donna da Rabat, una che aveva l’abitudine di guardare fuori dal proprio balcone quando lui passava e poi lo seguiva  fin dentro la chiesa. Se n’erano andati via insieme e non erano tornati mai più.

“Forse lui era morto?”

“Molto peggio. Mi è stato portato via, me l’hanno rubato.” E Rosalija si metteva a guardare lo spazio vuoto come se vi scorgesse nuovamente la foto dell’innamorato, poi girava la pagina mentre si asciugava una lacrima.

Ma a chi aveva orecchie buone, non sarebbe sfuggito ciò che  borbottava tra i denti: “Che Dio la punisca per quello che mi ha fatto,” prima di rimettersi  a raccontare la storia.

Chi conosceva tutti i risvolti della vicenda soleva raccontare che la donna con la quale l’innamorato di Rosalija era fuggito via era morta all’estero, qualche tempo dopo, nel dare alla luce un bambino.

I racconti, comunque, tendono a crescere e a trasformarsi col passare degli anni. È successo anche alla nostra storia?  Non è escluso.

Racconto di Joe Friggieri tratto da “Tales for our times” pagg.43-45 –pubblicato da Progress Press Co. Ltd., Valletta, Malta-2004 (titolo originale –The other photograph)
Traduzione di Lucia Sallustio

Rosalija è l’emblema della donna che ha amato una volta sola e per sempre. Una “zitella”, come l’avrebbero chiamata un tempo, una “single” diremmo noi oggi per sdrammatizzare. In ogni caso è una donna raccolta nel culto della propria famiglia e
dei ricordi, quelli buoni e quelli che fanno ancora male sia pur rimossi. La foto mancante, infatti, è mera rimozione di un episodio incisivo che le ha marcato la vita tramutando un sentimento dolce in rabbia sotterranea, maledizione soffiata tra i denti e appena percettibile.
Un alone di magia pervade la storia, come in tutti i racconti di Joe Friggieri che lascia parlare la vita con la semplicità della saggezza popolare, intrisa del vissuto degli antenati, stratificatasi nell’immaginario collettivo.
L’album di famiglia assurto a oggetto di  culto è un condensato di tante vite intrecciate tra di loro come avviene nei piccoli paesi dove tutti sanno tutto degli altri e i racconti si tramandano, crescono, si mescolano, cambiano identità cosicché la micro-storia diviene  Storia universale, patrimonio delle generazioni che verranno.

“Che Dio gliela faccia pagare per quanto mi ha fatto” è l’anatema di Rosalija alla donna che le ha sottratto l’uomo amato. Colpirà a segno, la donna morirà ma Rosalija non riavrà l’amato. Non era destino per il loro amore, nemmeno per opera di un incantesimo.

Lo stile di Joe Friggieri incanta per opera della sua stessa essenzialità, fluisce ora laconico, ora colorito da espressioni popolari e proverbiali. Laddove affiora la voce narrante, “I bambini non sanno cosa significa arruolarsi” o “Perfino gli adulti non riescono a distinguere una guerra dall’altra,  figuriamoci i bambini” l’intento è quello di condurre il lettore per mano verso la riflessione sui temi filosofici ed esistenziali proposti dalla storia. Di stampo post-modernista è, infine, l’utilizzo del tropo nella chiusa  “I racconti, comunque, tendono a crescere e a trasformarsi col passare degli anni. E’ successo anche alla nostra storia? Non e’ escluso” consistente nel fare avvolgere la storia su di sé mettendone in dubbio la sua stessa veridicità.

Lucia Sallustio

Racconto e recensione sono stati pubblicati nella rivista letteraria mensile Pomezia-Notizie- Direttore Responsabile Domenico Defelice- N°6 giugno 2009-pagg. 20 e 21


The green muslin of the frock, wrinkled from the trip, waved like a patriotic flag in full contrast with her pale complexion and tawny red hair. A curl tickled the rebel forehead, rippled from moisture in the morning and she removed it , from time to time, annoyed. The lapping of the water hypnotized her. A boat docked at the shore, after the night out. Two fishermen  went ashore, the oldest had a fishing lamp in his hand, the other a fishing net. The boy looked at her bold, the fish darted into the net while still alive and struggled caught in the clutches of tentacled octopus. The  redfish goggling eyes seemed to implore her help, gasping and writhing. Then he moved no more.
She felt a shiver through her body and was afraid. The boy noticed that and laughed. That smile annoyed her, she knew what he was thinking. Even Pinuccio behaved that way with her and her friends and called them sissies.

So was her first meeting with her aunt, with her rebellious expression and a lock that could not sit between the neat braids. She watched her from afar, as she hurried to pick up the package that her brother had sent her with the  recommendation to straighten the girl.
“Good morning. You are Mary, Ginetto’s daughter “- said she in a confident tone, the challenge in her eyes which fired  like black coals. “I’m aunt Jane”
“Good morning to you,” replied the little girl with a bow.
At least she  knows how to behave, the woman thought and, despite herself, she admitted that the girl was very nice and distinct, and seemed well educated. Maybe her brother had gone too far.
They walked and to those who looked at them heading for the village, they looked like a mother and her daughter, one small and fast, the other thin and long.  From time to time the woman turned to the girl gesticulating and waving. The girl stopped, dropped the case, and hastened to follow her silently, nodding her head.

English text of the short-story “Un incontro importanteby Sallustio Lucia


5 thoughts on “Extracts of my pages

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