Όταν δε σε θέλει...

Με την άδειά σας θα ρίξω το επίπεδο για ένα post. Κατά καιρούς είναι καλό να γίνεται, για να ανάβουν λίγο τα αίματα (βλ. ΥΓ 2) . Άλλωστε είναι κάτι τέτοιες στιγμές που οι μικρές αναποδιές (και μεγαλύτερες τώρα με τις απεργίες) καταβάλλουν τον άνθρωπο...

Ως κατά βάση άθεος και επιστήμονας (και μην αρχίσετε να λεπτολογείτε περί αγνωστικισμών, ναι, αυτό που "πιστεύω" ως "αθεΐα" κατηγοριοποιείται μαζί με όλα τα υπόλοιπα) δεν είμαι προληπτικός, όμως όταν η μπάλα δεν μπαίνει στο πλεχτό ό,τι και να κάνεις, ε... αρχίζεις και αναρωτιέσαι για το ποια απο τις δύο τυφλές θεές σε έχει βάλει στο μάτι.

Leap day του δίσεκτου έτους μας, (29 Φεβ) γενέθλια του Rossini ως εσημειώθη, και είμαι απο πολύ νωρίς στο εργαστήριο. Γιατί; Επειδή 9:00 ξεκινούσε η προπώληση εισιτηρίων ΕΛΣ για την όπερα Tosca του Puccini (και όχι του εορτάζοντος όπως νόμιζαν μερικοί...) και 10:00 έπρεπε να είμαι πίσω στο εργαστήριο για νέο setup. Do-able? Ίσως...

Μετά βίας καταφέρνω να είμαι στο Ολυμπια στις 9:45. Μπαίνω και αντικρύζω μια ουρά απο pepperpots!

Pepperpots στη διάλεκτο των Monty Python είναι οι γυναίκες μέσης και προχωρημένης ηλικίας οι οποίες απο τα τριαντα-φεύγα (μην πω και πιο νωρίς) ξεκινούν μια φυλοσύνδετη διαδικασία η οποία εντός πενταετίας τους δίνει τέλειο σχήμα αλατιέρας (εξ'ού και το όνομα) και τις μετατρέπει στο πιο ενοχλητικό πλάσμα του κόσμου (με την πιθανή εξαίρεση ενός Μεγάλου Λευκού καρχαρία που μασουλάει το ακρωτηριασμένο σου πόδι...)

Συνήλθα κάπως απο το σοκ όταν διαπίστωσα πως δεν βρίσκονταν εκεί για να με ανταγωνιστούν στην κορυφή της πυραμίδας αλλά στόχευαν στη βάση. Λόγω τέλους του μήνα είχαν κουπόνια Εργατικής Εστίας. Αναμονή λοιπόν στην ουρά όσο στα ταμεία εκτυλίσσονταν σκηνές μαροκινού σουκ : "Ποιές θέσεις είναι οι καλύτερες; Οι ροζ ή οι κίτρινες;" "Δεν έχει κίτρινες εκεί που κοιτάτε." "Ναι εντάξει, οι ροζ" "Μια στιγμή να πάρω ένα τηλέφωνο να δώ αν θα τους κάνουν" "Και πότε είναι, είπατε;" "40 ευρώ; 25 δεν είχαμε πει;" "Στα 6 εισιτήρια δεν κάνετε έκπτωση;" "Θα μου αρέσει η παράσταση;"

Κι ενώ καταχωρούσα μια υπενθύμιση στο κινητό μου για να αρχίσω να μελετώ σοβαρά τη μεθολογία και την πρακτική εφαρμογή των πιο αποτελεσματικών γεννοκτονιών, ανοίγει το δεύτερο ταμείο. Χαιντελικό Hallelujah!, η ώρα είχε πάει 10:30 και τα δικά μου δείγματα ορού κινδύνευαν να μείνουν έξω απο το 2ο batch της ημέρας.

"Καλημέρα σας! Θα ήθελα δύο εισιτήρια για την πρεμιέρα της Tosca, προεδρικό θεωρείο."

Παχουλή εξυπηρετική νεοαφιχθείσα ταμίας προς ταλαιπωρημένη ταμία: "Ο κύριος θέλει προεδρικό για πρεμιέρα". - "Πάρε τηλέφωνο επάνω την xxxxxx"

"Καλημέρα xxxxxx, η yyyyyyyyy είμαι, κοίτα, έχω εδώ έναν κύριο και θέλει προεδρικό για πρεμιέρα.... Δύο.... δίνουμε;"......"και 30, έτσι; Ωραία."

"Κοιτάξτε, για τις πρεμιέρες τα εισιτήρια του προεδρικού θεωρείου διατίθενται για δημόσιες σχέσεις ( μαζική υπαραχνοειδής ). Μπορείτε να βγάλετε οποιαδήποτε άλλη ημέρα εκτός απο τις 30 Μαρτίου"

Παρά τα εστιακά νευρολογικά που εμφανίζονταν προοδευτικά, ένοιωθα δικαιωμένος που απεχθανόμουν τις πρεμιέρες απο εκείνη την καταστροφική πρεμιέρα του Fellowship of the Ring και την Ακατονόμαστη Νο1 (άκου εκεί Activities: Psaxnw trito gia partouza....)


Ωραία λοιπόν, πάει ο Κορεάτης (or whatever...), για να δούμε τι ψάρια θα πιάσει ο Germán Villar στο Lucevan le stelle... "Δύο εισιτήρια, προεδρικό θεωρείο - μή χάσω - για την Κυριακή 23 Μαρτίου." "Μάλιστα" clickety-click "θέσεις 1 και 2, 23 Μαρτίου ημέρα Κυριακή, η παράσταση ξεκινά 20 : 00, 260 ευρώ σύνολο" - γδούποι απο την παρακείμενη ουρά - "τα εκδίδω;" "Ναι" clickety-click


"Μια στιγμή... γιατί δεν μου τα εκτυπώνει; Να σου πώ έχω δύο προεδρικά, το σύστημα τα δείχνει ως αγορασμένα, οι θέσεις είναι κόκκινες αλλά δεν τα εκτυπώνει. Εσένα σου τα εκτυπώνει κανονικά;"

"Ναι, απο το πρωί."

"Να σου πώ xxxxxx, στείλε τον ............., υπάρχει ένα πρόβλημα στην εκτύπωση".

Μέσα σε ένα τέταρτο 4 ευγενέστατοι υπάλληλοι της ΕΛΣ είχαν μαζευτεί πάνω απο το μηχάνημα, το οποίο είχε αναπτύξει προλεταριακή συνείδηση, και προσπαθούσαν να το πείσουν να εκτυπώσει τα ακριβά εισιτήριά μου, ενώ εκτύπωνε χωρίς πρόβλημα τα φθηνότερα που εκδίδονταν απο το διπλανό εκδοτήριο.

Μετά απο αρκετά τηλεφωνήματα ("τα δείχνει αγορασμένα αλλά δεν τα εκτυπώνει" "όχι δεν πρέπει να τα βγάλουμε ακυρωτικά" "πατάω επανεκτύπωση και δεν κάνει τίποτα" ) και αφού πλέον όλοι οι παρευρισκόμενοι και η ευρύτερη περι του "Ολυμπία" περιοχή έχουν ενημερωθεί με τον σαφέστερο δυνατό τρόπο για την ημερομηνία, τις θέσεις και την αξία των εισιτηρίων που αγοράζω, η θεά της ΙΤ αποφασίζει προσωρινά να μου κάνει το χατήρι γιατί στην όπερα είμαστε και όπως λέει και η άρια, la donna è mobile. Τα εισιτήρια εκδίδονται ακριβώς τη στιγμή που η μουρμούρα της ουράς φτάνει να ακούγεται στην Ακαδημίας.

Η ώρα ήταν 11:45. Πάει το δεύτερο batch. Δεν πειράζει... όταν δε σε θέλει...τί τα έχουμε τα απογεύματα άλλωστε; Ευτυχώς που έχουμε internet στο εργαστήριο.

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3 εβδομάδες μετά, στα εκδοτήρια του Μεγάρου Μουσικής, ετοιμάζομαι να αγοράσω εισιτήριο για τη Λειτουργία του Λόρδου Νέλσονα του Haydn με την Καμεράτα και τον Mario Zeffiri υπο τoν Christopher Hogwood (πολύ γνωστό στους παροικούντες τη Ιερουσαλήμ του baroque).

"Πρέπει να ξέρετε ότι δεν θα εμφανιστεί ο Mario Zeffiri."
Όταν δε σε θέλει...(πάλι καλά που θα είναι τουλάχιστον ο Hogwood....)

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Ίδια ημέρα, σε κεντρικό ταξιδιωτικό πρακτορείο (και δεν μιλάω για τα αεροπλάνα που δεν πάνε ποτέ απευθείας εκεί που θέλεις...) : "Θα χρειαστεί να περιμένετε κανένα πεντάλεπτο για την απόδειξη, έχει κολλήσει το σύστημα." Προφανώς δεν ήταν μόνο πεντάλεπτο...
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Βουλκανιζατέρ: "Το λάστιχο έχει σκιστεί, δεν επιδιορθώνεται. Θα αλλάξουμε το ζεύγος."
nah..... ευκαιρία για καινούργια λάστιχα συνολικά. Τί δύο, τί τέσσερα...
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Ευτυχώς που δε συμβαίνει τίποτα στη θάλασσα. Απο την άλλη, πού ξερεις, όταν δε σε θέλει....
Το μόνο που λείπει είναι κρίση στη Μέση Ανατολή.

ΥΓ1: Αποκάλυψη: Η Τόσκα είναι αλβανίδα και τραγουδάει στην Πειραιώς! (προσοχή, για περιορισμένο αριθμό εμφανίσεων).



Το οποίο βεβαίως βρίσκεται σε απόλυτη αντιστοιχία με το ότι ο Νταλάρας και η Μαρινέλα εμφανίζονται στο Μέγαρο. Σύντομα φαντάζομαι και ο Τερλέγκας.

ΥΓ2: Μια και πιάσαμε τα του πολιτισμού, για ρίξτε μια ματιά στο τί έγινε στα comments ενός παλαιότερου post: Το Λίκνο του Δυτικού Πολιτισμού

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Arthur C. Clarke: 16 December 1917 – 19 March 2008 R.I.P.

Day by day, we see our world getting poorer.

The giants on whose shoulders we have stood to see further are passing away.

Humanity has shown immeasurable talent. But some losses seem so painfully irreplaceable.

"Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic".
Arthur C. Clarke

We can only promise that we will continuously strive to make that moment come true. Each and every one of us who share that vision, no matter how small our contribution may be. The dream lives on.

Arthur C. Clarke
16 December 1917 – 19 March 2008

Requiescat in pace

PS: At the BBC: News and Obituary.
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Static live @ Rodeo, Thursday 20/3, 22:00

Οι Static, η μπάντα των Γιάννη Μαστρογιάννη και Χάρη Χατζηιωάννου, μια ευχάριστη έκπληξη στο χώρο της live μουσικής, με ιδαίτερα άνετο και "φυσικό" ήχο (κάτι που όπως έχω ξαναγράψει δύσκολα βρίσκεται σε συγκροτήματα που παίζουν κυρίως διασκευές) θα εμφανιστούν αύριο, Πέμπτη 20/3 στο Rodeo, Χέυδεν 34, κοντά στην πλατεία Βικτωριας, τηλ. 2108814702.

Μαζί τους και 2 άλλα συγκροτήματα, όλοι στον ήχο του garage rock και των περι αυτού ρευμάτων. Απο τις 22:00 το βράδυ.

BE THERE!

St. Patrick's Day!

Today is St. Patrick's Day!

O Paddy dear, an' did ye hear the news that's goin' round?
The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground;
St. Patrick's Day no more we'll keep, his colour can't be seen,
For there's a cruel law agin the wearin' o' the Green.

Not a cruel law exactly, but Church authorities moved the day of the Feast of St. Patrick so that it would not coincide this year with a day of the Roman Catholic observance of the Holy Week. However, secular celebrations and parades will in most cases be held today, as normal!

I met wid Napper Tandy and he took me by the hand,
And he said, "How's poor ould Ireland, and tell me how does she stand?"
She's the most distressful country that ever you have seen,
For they're hangin' men an' women here for the wearin' o' the Green.

I will not write about rebellion, sacrifice, famine and suffering, though the Sean-Bhean bhocht (meaning Poor old woman, pronounced shan van vocht, a personification of Ireland) has seen blood and suffering aplenty.

Then since the colour we must wear is England's cruel red,
Sure Ireland's sons shall ne'er forget the blood that they have shed,
You may take the shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod,
It will take root and flourish there though underfoot it's trod.

Instead, I will write about music.

What is this thing in the Irish soul that draws forth such music? Sure enough, any southern Italian will move from operatic mourning to spirited tarantella and the Asturians and their gaitas make the Atlantic seem to come alive, but... I cannot put it in words, this way that reels and ballads and dirges blend in Irish music like mischievous leprechauns taunting sad banshees in a mad dance around Gaelic ruins in distant fields of brightest green...

It is not a Paddy Day reel. It is not even a traditional song. And it is not even written or sung by an Irishman! (Although it is based on an irish traditional tune) Which serves only to show how great an inspiration Ireland has become to folk music. (Well that, and maybe how great girls from Galway are... :-) ) Recently made popular by the film "P.S, I love you". Do not make faces. DO see the movie. It is not the average chick-flick. Hillary Swank is an absolute goddess (so hot I did not even recognise her at the beginning) and the story illustrates the truth that painful losses are not forgotten simply by the mercy of time and people around us saying "get over it" and "snap out of it" and "move on".

Anyway, "Galway Girl" by Steve Earle




Well, I took a stroll on the old long walk
Of a day -I-ay-I-ay
I met a little girl and we stopped to talk
Of a fine soft day -I-ay-I-ay
And I ask you, friend, what's a fella to do
'Cause her hair was black and her eyes were blue
And I knew right then I'd be takin' a whirl
'Round the Salthill Prom with a Galway girl

We were halfway there when the rain came down
Of a day -I-ay-I-ay
And she asked me up to her flat downtown
Of a fine soft day -I-ay-I-ay
And I ask you, friend, what's a fella to do
'Cause her hair was black and her eyes were blue
So I took her hand and I gave her a twirl
And I lost my heart to a Galway girl

When I woke up I was all alone
With a broken heart and a ticket home
And I ask you now, tell me what would you do
If her hair was black and her eyes were blue
I've traveled around I've been all over this world
Boys I ain't never seen nothin' like a Galway girl

So put on something green... and HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY!



(And who knows, maybe one day we will be able to catch the leprechaun at the end of the rainbow and get his cauldron of gold...)

Now the Scotsman can boast of the Thistle
And the English may boast of the Rose
But Paddy alone can claim the Emerald Isle
Where the green three-leaved Shamrock grows

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Cave Idus Martiae! - Cäsars Tod

Beware the Ides of March! (March 15)

For all those who have set their minds on greatness and lofty goals, let this day be a warning! Treason is never away from people's minds.

Betrayal can lurk behind any corner and traitors... well... we see them in our everyday lives aplenty.

Tyranny on the other hand,as history has shown, is never tolerated. Another warning to those who tread on others to reach their lofty goals.



From the opera "Der Silbersee,ein Wintermärchen" (The Silver lake, a winter's tale) by the great Kurt Weill (libretto by Georg Kaiser):

Cäsars Tod

Rom war eine Stadt, und alle Römer
hatten in den Adern heißes Blut.
Als sie Cäsar einst tyrannisch reizte,
kochte es sofort in Siedeglut.

Nicht die Warnung konnte Cäsar hindern:
"Hüte vor des Märzes Iden dich!"
Er verfolgte seine frechen Ziele
und sah schon als Herrn der Römer sich.

Immer schlimmer schlug ihn die Verblendung,
nur sein Wort galt noch im Capitol.
Und den weisen Rat der Senatoren
schmähte er gemein und höhnisch Kohl.

Da kam stolzes Römerblut ins Wallen.
Selbst der Freund bleibt keinem Cäsar treu,
wenn ihn dieser nur für seine Zwecke
kalt mißbraucht und sagt es ohne Scheu.

Heimlich trafen nachts sich die Verschwörer
und beredeten voll Eifer sich.
Und genau am Tag der Märzesiden
gab ihm Brutus den verdienten Stich.

Cäsar sank von seinem Sitz und stierte
seinen Mörder an, als ob’s nicht wahr.
"Et tu, Brute?" — rief er auf lateinisch,
wie es dort die Landessprache war.

Lasse keiner sich vom Wahn verführen,
daß er mehr als jeder and’re gelt:
Cäsar wollte mit dem Schwert regieren
und ein Messer hat ihn selbst gefällt.

(Once there was a city called Rome, and all the Romans
had hot blood in their veins.
And when Caesar provoked them with tyranny
it roared immediately with boiling-heat.

The warning could not hinder Caesar
"Beware the Ides of March!"
He pursued his brazen goals
already seeing himself as lord of the Romans.

His blindness grew worse and worse
his word alone counted in the Capitol.
And the wise counsel of the Senators
he would sneer at and treat as rot.

Then the proud Roman blood came to the boil
no friends remain loyal to Caesar
when he coldly misuses them for his own purposes
and shamelessly says so.

The conspirators met secretly at night
and plotted full of eagerness
And exactly on the day of the Ides of March
Brutus gave him the stab he deserved

Caesar sank from his seat and stared
at his murderers as if it weren't real
"Et tu, Brute?" he said in latin
as was the language of that place

Let no one be led by delusions
that he counts more than anyone else:
Caesar wanted to rule with the sword
and it was a knife that struck him down.)

Sic semper tyrannis, gentlemen... the line that divides greatness from tyranny is a very fine one. As is the line that divides betrayal from self-determination....



PS I: "Der Silbersee,ein Wintermärchen" premiered 10 days before the burning of the Reichstag in 1933. It was a brave move by Kurt Weill and Georg Kaiser to stage an opera directly attacking tyranny while Nazism was on the rise.

PS II: Though less dramatic, it is the everyday betrayals that we usually face. And they hurt every bit as much because they remind us of the many ways life has to make us be untrue even to ourselves.
For Rafael...


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Gianni Agnelli (March 12, 1921 - January 24, 2003)

Gianni Agnelli was the most important industrialist in Italian history ("Agnelli significa FIAT e FIAT significa Agnelli"). According to Wikipedia: "As the head of Fiat, he controlled 4.4% of Italy's GNP, 3.1% of its industrial workforce, and 16.5% of its industrial investment in research."

More importantly, his exquisite taste in style made him one of the best dressed men EVER (one of the top-five according to Esquire magazine). - He is Piemontese, after all...not surprising for one of them to become the epitome of style and panache.

All this is well known however.

I hereby post two rare pictures, scanned from an old italian course book of mine, aria d'italia (Edizioni Scolastiche Bruno Mondadori). The pictures from this book come from the photographic archives of the Edizioni Scolastiche Mondadori and from the Centro di Documentazione dell' Arnoldo Mondadori Editore and besides that, from the photographic agencies : Farabola di Milano, Fiore di Torino and Pubbli Aer Foto di Milano.

Gianni Agnelli (left) with the great Enzo Ferrari, over a racing Ferrari single seater.


"IL MANZO AUMENTA, mangeremo Agnelli" One of the most famous italian puns: "BEEF PRICES RISE, we will eat lambs (agnelli)". Obviously, L'Avvocato (The Lawyer) was not very popular with the working classes :-)

PS: In 1980, trade unions closed down the main FIAT installations at Mirafiori. ("The 35 days of FIAT").

Berlinguer addressing the workers during the strike at Mirafiori. (www.immaginidistoria.it)

It was a direct clash between the Italian Communist Party (PCI) and its secretary, Enrico Berlinguer, and Gianni Agnelli. It ended with a huge counter-march organised by Agnelli himself. During this period he set the tone against the "historical compromises" and Eurocommunism advocated by Berlinguer, with his statement:

«Fino ad oggi il Partito comunista è stato visto con due prospettive: quella della speranza e quella della paura. Dopo l'episodio di oggi credo che la prospettiva della speranza sia cancellata»

("Up to this day the communist Party was viewed with two perspectives: that of hope and that of fear. After today's events I believe the perspective of hope has been annulled")






















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Reflections on the Sea: Dune and Everloving by Moby

The vastness of the Sea, diminishing in size the vessels that cross her surface encompasses the view of human life drifting in loneliness. And something irresistible draws us to cross that vastnes, hoping for what?

From the surf at the beach to the wide ocean beyond:

___________________________________________________________________________

Paul opened his eyes. 'It's just one of Guerney Halleck's tone poems for sad times.'
Behind Paul, Jessica began to recite:

'I remember salt smoke from a beach fire  
And shadows under the pines -           
Solid, clean... fixed -                 
Seagulls perched at the tip of the land,
White upon green...                     
And a wind comes through the pines      
To sway the shadows;                    
The seagulls spread their wings,        
Lift                                    
And fill the sky with screeches.        
And I hear the wind                     
Blowing across our beach,               
And the surf,                           
And I see that our fire                 
Has scorched the seaweed'               

(Frank Herbert, Dune)




"Everloving" by Moby (Play, 1999)



PS:

Pride overcame Paul's fear. 'You dare suggest a duke's son is an animal?' he demanded.

'Let us say I suggest you may be human' (Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam)
___
'Humans must never submit to animals' (Lady Jessica)
___
'Humans are almost always lonely' (Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam)


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Il Gattopardo pt. II - The novel

Today is the birthday of Alessandro Manzoni, the man who in his masterpiece "I Promessi Sposi" (The Betrothed) not only encapsulated italian aspirations for self-determination and independence from austrian influence but provided, in standardised toscana idiom the "official" languange for the nascent Italian State.

However, at this time I choose to continue on a related subject, the novel Il Gatopardo (The Leopard) by the prince of Lampedusa, Giuseppe Tomasi.




The italian Risorgimento created what had not been achieved since the days of the Roman Empire: A unified Italy. The old establishment of petty Kingdoms, Duchies, Republics, city-states and the Papal States was swept away in its obvious obsolescence.

However, the new, predominantly Piemontese, establishment had to contend with centuries-old mindsets, customs and practices that brought each region of Italy a world apart from each other. Perhaps Fürst von Metternich's deeply reactionary comment that "Italy" was nothing but a geographical term, held some measure of truth.

Sicily had seen a change of hands way too many times but it seemed that the sun-baked landscape induced the same state of inertia to any change of rule, moulded the psyche in such ways as to make it a timeless extension of those interminable, lazy, hot summer middays that characterised - in name as well - the wider region: Il Mezzogiorno....


Change, by definition is something relative. This time however, there was real change in the air and it came with a piemontese bourgeois face.

The time was 1860 and the Kingdom of Two Sicilies was about to end, with the power shifting not from one aristocracy to another, but rather to a more dynamic form of power: centralised politics and by inevitable necessity, money.

I used to be more concerned with the sociopolitical aspects of the novel. It is a keen insight on the failings of the Cavour-Garibaldi centralization that disregarded local character. It also takes an ideological position that came under fire by almost everyone: For the left it is a reactionary idealisation of dangerous aristocratic ideals and for the right it is an impious novel that portrays the clergy as corrupt and weak. I will not be writing about that however. Tons (literally) of books have been written on The Leopard's sociopolititcal profile. I need and can not add to that. The state of modern Italy is way too complicated a subject and for me a deeply emotional one as well.

What has grown to concern me most about the book is the astonishing depth in which, in his measured and accurate (too accurate one may say) language, Tomasi explores the psyche of the vanishing aristocracy, a self exploratory journey into the nobility of quiet decay and the acceptance of the inevitable as the world moves on, at an ever increasing pace towards new and unprecedented ways to distribute power and influence.

The prince (the author, since we will spell the hero, Prince Corbera with a capital P ) was a man of great depths but apparently little... let us say "nerve". He spent his life (a phrase leaps into mind, "life of quiet desperation" or something like that, now where have I heard it before?) travelling and reading and doing little besides that. He became a member of the intellectual literary societies of Palermo and he published some critical works but nothing further than that.

It seems as if his whole life was a single observation period that led to a single novel in his final months of life that encompassed in the most comprehensive way the psychological aspects of the fading of the old as the new came to the foreground.

The main character, Don Fabrizio Corbera, principe di Salina, a charismatic person with a passion for mathematics and astronomy did nothing to reverse the family's fortunes. By refusing to enter the Senate, he kept his dignified stance but that meant that he gradually faded into the background, while the slimy face of the new order revealed itself in the crude but wealthy mayor Don Calogero Sedàra, who made a fortune with the acquisition of assets that the nobles sold to balance the liabilitites of their decadence, lands that in the novel pass by in a sad roll call of property long gone.

Is don Calogero, however, worse than the opportunistic Tancredi, the Prince's nephew, who with the Prince's backing marries the beautiful and beautifully rich Angelica Sedàra, don Calogero's daughter, who inherited the maternal beauty - and never mind the fact that her maternal grandfather was a man named Pepe Merda (Pepe Shit) ?

Hints to the author's feelings (without any declared sympathies - Tomasi, in all probability because of his psychoanalyst wife, was conscious of the self-destructing capacity of nobility) are provided by the victims: By the sad, slow fate of the dog Bendicò, by the loyal, but naive in his faith for the divine right of nobility and absolutely scorned don Ciccio and by Concetta, the Prince's daughter, who in the end reamins unmarried and childless, ending the Corbera line forever.

By the fates of these people the novel raises a very serious question:
What is nobility?

Now I believe that it is the collected weight of the world, borne upon the shoulders of some individuals who through upbringing, stimuli, ancestral memories or special sensibilities grasp the very meaning of terrible purpose, dictated by something loftier than simple day-to-day survival with concessions and the steady grinding into the amorphous mass of people that pressures from society mandate.

From those nobles (today do not look for them only in palaces and towers - even though it is unlikely to find them in hovels) some discover the inner strength to carry on, day by dogged day, carrying the burdens that dignity and duty demand and some (most) others simply choose to wallow in their emotional ivory tower (like Concetta) simply because they are tangled in a maze of irrelevant misconceptions that obscures their true self and the inner core of perseverence that each human has within him.

In many ways it reminds me of Ismini, in the play of the same name by Yiannis Ritsos. A figure of ultimate dignity, a timeless testimony of the past, practically frozen while all around her in her halls, time passes bringing with him an almost audible decay. The burden of the tragic currents of humanity all around her have rendered her an island of introversion. Until it is time for her to make her splendid exit, and lie, as in sleep, poisoned by her own hand.

___________________________________________________________________________

The Leopard has many aspects and can be read in many ways. Most of them are well documented. Besides all that, to me the Leopard is prominently an elegy to the past, not because it was lost (the concept of loss begins and ends the book and the Prince's life, and he argues successfully that in human terms, how long may one resist change? One century, two? Then what? ) but because it is preserved just enough to trap its heirs in its legacy.

It is an elegy to the inner strength that people who needed it most never developed.
And that is a very astute observation from a prince who spent all his life in quiet introspection.

***

"Noi fummo i Gattopardi, i Leoni; quelli che ci sostituiranno saranno gli sciacalletti, le iene; e tutti quanti Gattopardi, sciacalli e pecore continueremo a crederci il sale della terra."

(We were the Leopards, the Lions; those that will come in our place will be the petty jackals, the hyenas; and the whole lot, Leopards, jackals and sheep, will continue to believe that we are the salt of the earth - trnsl. by me).




PS: "Prince of the island of Lampedusa, duke of Palma, baron of Montechiaro, lord and master of Torretta, baron of Falconeri, Raffo, Rosso, Santo Nicolò, Colobrino e Zarcati, lord of the fiefs of Montecuccio, Bellolambo e Bigliemi, dei Communi, Communaccio, Mandranuova, Ficoamara, della Villa, Celona, Casarino, Poggilo, Carobitto, Affacio Mare, Santa Domenica, Gibildolce , of the three areas of Donna Ventura, Casa Romana e Rennella and of the farms of Facio, Casotte, Argivocale e Manca". These were the, long lost in the author's time, titles of his grandfather, the astronomer Giulio Maria Tomasi.

Memories

A couple of weeks ago I bought a multipurpose scanner/printer/copier (a Canon PIXMA MP610). In order to accomodate it in my room, where little space remains unoccupied from books, stacks of notes,CDs and DVDs, I had a major relocation of books and stuff.

I packed my trusted but woefully outdated (it had a parallel port connection! ) Hewlett-Packard Deskjet 710C, with its bulky external power supply in typical HP fashion, in its original package box and stashed it in the basement next to my old Eizo F55 Flexscan 17' CRT monitor that weighed in at more or less 25 kgs and an assortment of other useless stuff that I simply stored not because I would ever need them again but because of their function as memory milestones.


3 days ago, overload stress got the better of the side shelves that after the relocation hosted all of my medicine textbooks and they collapsed. After the chaos that ensued had been cleared and the broken shelves removed, I discovered yesterday, in a nook behind them, a poster that brought back a flood of memories. It is a big poster of Jimmy Cauty's artwork, inspired by J.R.R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings (fortunately popular enough to find pictures of it on the Web) :

Das Memoirensignal: J.Cauty's Poster

I believe it was 1994 or 95 when I got that poster. Each and every time that something made me lose heart, every time that I thought that I was approaching a state of total despair I would look up at the wizened figure of Gandalf and I would take heart, I would muster my forces and stand my ground waiting for the riders to charge from the east.

Yesterday, when I found that poster that had been down and tucked away for almost 5 years, the temptation to wallow in memories of times of innocence, simpler concerns and past personal and academic triumphs came back stronger than ever. This time however I was warned.

Memory is a comforting thing. It is easy to slip into the warm smugness of idealised moments, perfect sunsets, hours of blissful idleness or shared tenderness. How easy to dwell within those slowly fading halls like the Mountain King, hoarding treasures of the past and accumulating the patina of nobility while those unfettered by such concerns go about their business, shaping their future without the shackles that come with the "cherished" past.

You see, I recently saw a greek play, The Milk (Το Γάλα) by Vassilis Katsikonouris (Βασίλης Κατσικονούρης), directed by Anna Vagena (Αννα Βαγενά) with her in the leading role.

In the play a family (the widow with her two sons) with greek origins, repatriated from the former USSR, faces poverty and hardship and a particular tribulation: the younger son suffers from hallucinatory psychosis with manic/depressive lapses. The family is supported by a small church charity and the income of the elder son who has always been the stronger one and who in the face of adversity has steeled his soul against any emotional needs of those around him, in order to persevere and achieve his lifetime goal of becoming an accepted member of "griecki" society and leave forever behind the feral, hunted posture of his fellow immigrants.

The main theme of the play is the plight of the younger, psychotic brother (Lefteris) who cannot find any kind of support. His mother, wracked by guilt over her inability to provide for him ever since he was born (she was not even able to breast-feed him, hence the recurrent theme of milk throughout the play) is locked with him in a relationship of mutual dependence and is incapable of providing a steady hand to help ease his aflliction. His elder brother (Antonis), his last resort and hope, is steadily growing more and more unavailable for those little memory trips in the days of their seemingly carefree childhood in the suburbs of Tbilisi, Georgia, that seem to give Lefteris so much joy.

In the end, with his condition worsening and the mother dead, Lefteris has to be consigned to a psychiatric facility. His nightmares coming true, as the ambulance comes to take him away, he pleads for a final re-enactment of some sweet memory from the Georgia days, a football event of the final Soviet days. His elder brother snaps and tells him that those days, that happiness is never coming back, in the same fashion of the Raven's "Nevermore" as the playwright himself comments. "Δεν μπορεί να ξαναγίνει. Τίποτα δεν ξαναγίνεται ρε Λευτέρη..."

Lefteris continues to plead. He says that with love, sometimes, things may become as they were. Otherwise one is everywhere and always a stranger. "Καμιά φορα...Ίσως και να ξαναγίνονται. Όλα. Άμα αγαπιέσαι. Αλλιώς παντού και πάντα ξένος είσαι."

In the end, as he senses his fate, Lefteris begs Antonis to tell him that he loves him. Even now, Antonis refuses to do so. If I said that, he answers, then I would not be able to let them take you....

Reality is ruthless. And it remains so no matter how sheltered one is. With his mother gone, Lefteris had nowhere but his memories, his dreams and his love for his brother to turn to.

Castles built on sand, words written on sand, to be swept away by a mere brush of the surf...

The growing shadow of Lefteris' affliction overwhelmed his vulnerable mother, but the iron core within Antonis psyche held fast. He may not have been the one to evoke the most compassion (although his suppressing of feelings tormented him in its own way) but in the end he was the one to survive. From the very first of his days, he endured, and in endurance, he grew stronger and stronger.

This is what I found most revealing in the play. The portrayal of that iron core. Its forging in hardships unspeakable: Indulging in memories leaves vulnerabilities. Golden days of the past will never return when needed. Irrelevant emotions cause only griefs untold. (No matter how cynical that sounds). We must strive to forge ahead. Life is dynamic and not static.

A cushy, protected life will obscure this fact even from the eyes of talented, intelligent people (the Leopard, Principe di Salina comes in my mind...).

Like the ubiquitous warning in investment products: Past profits do not constitute a guarantee for future ones.

A seemingly insignificant failure of material has forced an early spring-cleaning. What I will try to get rid of first is demanding memories. It is through these that illusions are maintained and vulnerabilities take hold. They will never be expunged. We all carry our bleeding invisible wounds. There is no need to gush them in self-serving indulgence.

This afternoon I consigned all of my old hardware to the garbage.I crumpled or tore any other physical mementos that got in the way. I made a neat roll of the poster and tucked it in the furthest reaches of the basement.

Hopefully when I find it again, I will look upon it not with the illusion of hope but with the strength of independence.

Well we both know what memories can bring,
they bring diamonds and rust.....