Read Canti by Giacomo Leopardi Lucio Felici Online

canti

I Canti di Leopardi sono una delle più alte espressioni della lirica dell’Ottocento, accanto alle poesie di Hölderlin, Keats, Shelley, Baudelaire; ma sono anche un capolavoro assoluto e universale, la cui perenne attualità è dimostrata dal moltiplicarsi di studi e traduzioni in ogni Paese. Il vasto ed esaustivo commento si segnala per la limpidezza e ricchezza dell’annotazI Canti di Leopardi sono una delle più alte espressioni della lirica dell’Ottocento, accanto alle poesie di Hölderlin, Keats, Shelley, Baudelaire; ma sono anche un capolavoro assoluto e universale, la cui perenne attualità è dimostrata dal moltiplicarsi di studi e traduzioni in ogni Paese. Il vasto ed esaustivo commento si segnala per la limpidezza e ricchezza dell’annotazione, che tende a spiegare «Leopardi con Leopardi», facendo ricorso alle varianti autografe e ai testi in prosa del poeta....

Title : Canti
Author :
Rating :
ISBN : 9788854168145
Format Type : Hardcover
Number of Pages : 310 Pages
Status : Available For Download
Last checked : 21 Minutes ago!

Canti Reviews

  • Agir(آگِر)
    2018-10-01 06:33

    Surely life means misery...زیستن همانا به معنای بدبختی استشاید بتوان همه شعرها و زندگی جیاکومو لئوپاردی را در این جمله بالا خلاصه کرد. شعرهایش مالامال از عشق های نافرجام جوانی اش و زندگی مصیبت وار بشری استدر عنفوان جوانی دار فانی را وداع گفتم!از آن هنگام که زیستن، از شیرین ترین حالت برخوردار است.و پیش از آن که قلبِ آدمی از بیهودگی هر نوع آرزویی آگاه باشد او شاعری بزرگ بود که در همان جوانی بخاطر چهره ی نازیبایش نتوانست در دل زنانی که دوستشان می داشت جایی پیدا کند و لذت عشق را بچشد. همچو سیرانو دو برژراک(نویسنده فرانسوی) در سراسر زندگی اش رنج کشید. این شاعر مشهور ایتالیایی در نامه ای به "پیه ترو جیوردانی" می نویسد: من به مدت 7 سال، به صورت مداوم، بدنم را با درس خواندنی افراط آمیز و جنون آور، برای همیشه نابود ساختم...بدبختانه، خود را به سوی نابودی سوق دادم و دیگر برای همیشه، خود را محکوم ساختم، بدون آنکه دیگر هرگز بتوانم علاجی برای خود بیابم. من خود موجب گردیدم تا حالتی بسیار تحقیر آمیز در برابر دیدگان سایر انسان ها پیدا کنم. و متاسفانه اکثر مردم، صرفا به این جنبه از انسان که همانا ماهیتی کاملا ظاهری دارد توجه ابراز می دارندآلفرد دوموسه، شاعر نمایشنامه نویس و نویسنده معروف فرانسوی می نویسد: در سرزمین ایتالیا، زنان این مرز و بوم، هرگز چیزی از نبوغ و هوشمندی نفهمیده اند...بدون تردید، آنها به هوش و ذکاوت و نبوغ احترام می گذارند، اما هرگز به فردی نازیبا یا خمیده که بیشتر به گوژپشتی شباهت دارد اجازه نمی دهند به آنان نزدیک شود. حتی اگر این گوژپشت بینوا، ذهنی به درخشش آپولون داشته و شاعری والامقام باشد...! برای زنان ایتالیایی، زیبایی صورت، از مهمترین عناصر، برای راه یافتن به دهلیز قلب آنان استلئوپاردی در زندگی با بیماری هم دست به گریبان بود و تنها پناهش از این همه رنج، ادبیات است. او می نویسند: با نهایت خضوع و خشوع، میل دارم بدان آیا به راستی می توان سعادتِ اقوام و ملل را به دست آورد، بدون آنکه سعادتِ انسان ها به صورت فردی ، وجود نداشته باشد؟...انسان ها بنا به طبیعت، محکوم به بدبختی و فنا هستند، نه به خاطرِ انسان های دیگر، یا نوعی تصادفِ توضیح ناپذیر. لذا ما انسان ها، برای اینکه خود را از این بدبختی اجتناب ناپذیر تسکین خاطر بخشیم، به احساساتِ ناب و نیروی تخیل و توهماتِ زیبا و آرزوهای بزرگ و تحصیل علم ِ زیباشناسی اقدام می ورزیم. بدین شکل است که برای من، مفیدترین چیز در این عالم، همانا خوشایندترین چیز از میان چیزهای مفید است؛ و نیز آن که ادبیات، یقینا و بدون ذره ای تردید، مفیدترین چیز به شمار می رود! و لذا نمی دانم که آیا در چنین مواردی، باید به راستی خندید یا دست خوش احساس ترحم و رقت شد...؟لئوپاردی در مورد جایگاه واقعی ادبیات می گوید تنها سیاست است که باید در میان صفحات روزنامه ها و کتاب ها جای بگیرند و ادبیات حقیقی یگانه چیزی است که آدمی نمی تواند در مجلات و روزنامه ها بنگارد :خلاصه ای از برخی شعرها«خاطرات»!آه، ای دوران جوانی که از درخت غار نیز عزیزتری!کز نور خالص و ناب صبحگاهی و حتی از نفسم نیز عزیزتری،بدون تجربه کردن هیچ لذتی، تو را از دست می دهم،به شکلی پوچ و بیهوده، در مکانی بی رحم، در میان انواع رنج ها!...آه، ای تو گُلِ یگانه، در یک زندگی بایر و بی حاصل!ای امیدها، آه، ای امیدهای منای دروغ های شیرین سال های دوران جوانی ام: اغلب به سویتان باز می گردمو با شما سخن می گویم، زیرا گذر زمان و یا افکار و اندیشه ها.و حتی عشق هایی که تغییر یافته اند، هرگز نتوانستند شما را از ذهنم پاک کنند،آری، نیک می دانم که افتخار و شرافت، دو شبح بیش نیستند! و این که لذات و نیکی هاخواسته هایی ناب اند. حال آنکه زندگی، عاری از هر میوه و حاصلی استو نگون بختی بیهوده ای است! گرچه سال های زندگی ام از هر چیز تهی می نماید،و هستی ام گمنام و اسفبار و غم انگیزست، لیکن نیک می نگرم که سرنوشت،چیزهای زیادی از من نستانده است...آه، افسوس، چه بارها که به شما می پیوندم!ای انتظار قدیمی و کهنه ام! آه، ای نخستین رویاهای عزیزم«سرودِ شبانه ی شبانی آواره، در آسیا»:ای ماه، در آسمان چه می کنی؟ به من بگوچه می کنی، ای ماهِ ساکت و خاموش؟شب ها طلوع می کنی و به نظاره کردن دشت ها و صحراها می پردازی؛،سپس افول می کنی. آیا از هم اینکاز این که این مسیرهای ابدی را می پیمایی خسته نشده ای؟،آیا هنوز می توانی بدون ملامت و بی حوصلگیآرزوی دیدارِ مجددِ این دشت ها و صحراها را داشته باشی؟>ای شمایان ستارگان! زندگی شما چه فایده ای دارد؟گشت و. گذارِ کوتاه من، مرا به کجا می بَرَد، به من بگو!و گردشِ جاودانه ات، تو را به کجا می برد؟...چنین است زندگی یک موجود فانیانسان در سختی زاده می شود.و تولدش، همانا خطری برای مردن استآن چه او پیش تر از هر چیزی با آن آشنا می شود،همانا درد و رنج است؛ به محض ورود به عالم هستی،والدینش ناگزیرند به تسکین او همت گمارند...از اینکه وی را به دنیا آورده اند،اما آخر چرا لازم است موجودی را به دنیا آورد!تا سپس به تسکین خاطرِ او همت گماشت؟آخر چرا این کار را می پذیریم؟...آه، ای ماه کامل و پاک! چنین است وضعیت ما فانیانلیک تو فانی نیستی و این سخنان، برایت فاقد اهمیت استای گله ای که مشغول استراحت کردنی! ای گله سعادتمندی!که بی خبر از سختی ها و مصائبت به سر می بری!به راستی چه قدر غبطه ات را می خورمشاید اگر بال هایی داشتم تا به سوی ابرها پرواز کنم،و به دیدار از ستارگان بروم و یا همچون توفان،از این قله کوه، به سوی قله کوه دیگری می رفتم!بیش از حالا سعادتمند می شدم، ای گله عزیزم...شاید سعادتمند می شدم، ای ماه معصوم،یا شاید هم که اندیشه ام، با مقایسه سرنوشتم با سرنوشت دیگران...دور از واقعیت پرواز می کند،شاید به هر شکل و حالیت، در هر شرایطی،چه در گهواره و چه در لانه ی حیوانات،روز تولد، برای کسی که در آن متولد می گردد.همانا روز شوم و بدشگون باشد

  • Davide
    2018-10-05 03:29

    Negli anni del passaggio dal liceo all'università era la prima parte consistente della mia antologia poetica personale.Versi riletti, ridetti, risentiti, riscritti, rimuginati, rivissuti, rifiutati, reinventati.A SilviaLa quiete dopo la tempestaIl sabato del villaggioA se stessoUltimo canto di SaffoL'infinitoIl passero solitarioLa sera del dì di festaAlla lunaCanto notturno di un pastore errante dell'Asia

  • Debbie Zapata
    2018-09-25 09:43

    This poetry collection was a little bit out of the ordinary for me. I usually read poems in fits and starts, savoring them as I go along with other things, and sometimes a collection can take much longer to work through than you would think. And I don't always read about the poet while I am reading the poems, unless I am stumped for any idea of what they are trying to say. When I was setting this title up on my currently reading shelf I noticed a review which said the poems were very depressing. I thought oh, great. Well, I'll give it a go anyway. Along came the preface, with this bit of insight for me: Leopardi was substantially a poet,—that is to say, he had imagination, sentiment, passion, an intense love of beauty, a powerful impulse towards things ideal. The sad tone of his speculations about the universe and human destiny gave an impression of mournfulness to his lines, but this rather deepened the pathos of his work.Okay, I was really ready for sad poems after that. And they were sad. And angry. And sometimes whining. In the first poem To Italy (1818), he wonders what happened to the ancient splendor of the country, and what would the heroes of past times think of the current country, whereThe youth of ItalyTheir hireling swords for other lands have bared!Oh, wretched he in war who falls,Not for his native shores,His loving wife and children dear,But, fighting for another's gain,And by another's foe is slain!I did not know enough about Italian history to know what was happening at that time, so I did a little exploring and it seems this was the time of the Napoleonic Wars and their aftermath. Italy was not even a truly unified country at that time. So there was even more of an explanation for the sadness. A patriotic poet, trying to shame his countrymen into becoming great again. The first few poems are repeats of this same theme: long verses that ask what would Dante and Cicero think about the Italy of 1818?I thought there might be a change in the poem To His Sister Paolina On Her Approaching Marriage but Leopardi earned his first virtual smack upside the head from me here. Imagine writing to your sister on such a supposedly joyous event as her wedding and instead of wishing her happiness etc etc you tell her this in the very first lines of a long ranting poem: Since now thou art about to leaveThy father's quiet house,And all the phantoms and illusions dear,That heaven-born fancies round it weave,And to this lonely region lend their charm,Unto the dust and noise of life condemned,By destiny, soon wilt thou learn to seeOur wretchedness and infamy,My sister dear, who, in these mournful times,Alas, wilt more unhappy souls bestowOn our unhappy Italy!Oh, brother. (And then the sister didn't get married at that time after all, go figure.) But this made me curious: what was this guy's problem? Off to wiki I went and found that he had huge health issues (probably tuberculosis of the bone) and very strained relationships with his parents, and had fallen in love when he was eighteen but was rejected and never got over it, and wrecked his already fragile health by too much study as a young man and on and on. In other words, he was a mess and as I read along in the collection, I began to wonder how he ever managed to keep from killing himself. But I also became very annoyed with the man. Many people have serious issues in life and still manage to find and focus on Joy, even if it is just one moment of it a day. They find it and they don't constantly complain about their past or their present. It is called acceptance, and is a mature thing to be able to do. Leopardi was a deep thinker, very true, and a talented poet, also true. But he was a very unhappy, miserable person who never seemed to grow up, and to me most of his poems were merely fancy versions of high school angst.

  • Angigames
    2018-10-16 07:17

    Da ragazzina Leopardi è stata una vera e preziosa scoperta. Mentre i compagni di classe si annoiavano, lo sbeffeggiavano, ridevano della sua vita, io dalla prima lettura della prima poesia, l’ho subito sentito dentro, mi ha smosso qualcosa di profondo proprio nel cuore. Ancora adesso le sue poesie mi affascinano, mi commuovono, le sento risuonare nell’anima. Versi eccelsi, musicali, capaci di evocare immagini di una potenza straordinaria, presi però da una vita quotidiana semplice e dura allo stesso tempo. Per me Leopardi è un bellissimo tuffo nel passato.Stupendo!

  • Teresa Proença
    2018-10-19 01:37

    "O INFINITO Cara me foi sempre esta erma colinaE esta sebe, que por diversos ladosO extremo do horizonte veda ao meu olhar.Mas, sentado e olhando, intermináveisEspaços para além dela, e sobre-humanosSilêncios, e sossego profundíssimo No pensamento imagino; então por pouco O coração se não sobressalta. E, quando o ventoNas folhas ouço sussurrar, aqueleInfinito silêncio a esta vozVou comparando: e lembro-me do eterno,E das mortas estações, e da que agora passaE vive, do seu rumor. Assim no meioDesta imensidade o pensamento se me afoga:E naufragar me é doce neste mar."Giacomo Leopardi foi um dos maiores poetas italianos depois de Petrarca e Dante. Infinito é o seu poema mais curto e considerado o mais perfeito. Eu não gostei muito quer deste, quer dos outros; achei uma poesia muito "geográfica"; mais focada na natureza do que nos sentimentos humanos.

  • Ily
    2018-10-09 02:18

    Leopardi aveva una sensibilità ed un genio unici, il suo lascito è questa splendida raccolta in cui si interroga sui grandi quesiti dell'esistenza umana. Le sue poesie son tutte meritevoli ma tra le più belle, secondo me, spicca il "Canto notturno di un pastore errante dell'Asia'':"Che fai tu, luna, in ciel? dimmi, che fai,Silenziosa luna?Sorgi la sera, e vai,Contemplando i deserti; indi ti posi.Ancor non sei tu pagaDi riandare i sempiterni calli?Ancor non prendi a schivo, ancor sei vagaDi mirar queste valli?[...]E quando miro in cielo arder le stelle;Dico fra me pensando:A che tante facelle?Che fa l'aria infinita, e quel profondoInfinito Seren? che vuol dir questaSolitudine immensa? ed io che sono?"

  • Mauberley
    2018-10-01 07:28

    If you love poetry, why haven't your read this book? If you answer that you have never heard of its author (Giacomo Leopardi), after visiting this page, you no longer have that excuse. Once in a very great while we read something that changes our life and this, dear friend, is one of those books. Sincerest congratulations to John Galassi for his wonderful translations and very helpful notes. His suggestion that a newcomer should begin with the idylls is well heeded. However, the bays and laurels are Leopardi's alone. Prepare to stand in the presence of greatness.

  • ROC
    2018-09-24 09:25

    "Odi et amo. quare id faciam, fortasse requiris?nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior."- CatullusOrnate and often dreamlike, experiencing Canti is like exploring the Hellenistic ruins Leopardi was so fond of: splendorous in youth, now turned barren by time.Masterfully tuned in both style and evocation, you can see why Nietzsche called Leopardi one of the four finest prose stylists of the 19th century, and indeed one of Italy's greatest poets. Though known for his pessimism, this wasn't due to personal disgraces; Leopardi was considered deformed, rejected by all the women he loved, confined to a small town near Naples, constantly ill (from relentless study so they say), and died at the age of 39. But, most of all, he was incredibly sensitive and smart, two things combined that rarely work. Something we should keep in mind if we want to understand his reflections. There were many literates of the time who moved objections to him, repeating that he was very unlucky and hated life for that reason, that he always got mad. In all actuality, Leopardi loved life, even too much, and it was that love that made him hate it.

  • Lorena
    2018-10-18 07:29

    Srtange how reading for pleasure changes everything. I hated Leopardi growing up, having to study him in school. I thought of him as a loner, even a looser. I was wrong- he was a smart man, way ahead of his time, who had a magic way with words.

  • Natalija
    2018-10-09 06:19

    He likes Italy and dead girls too much.

  • Sononatanostalgica
    2018-10-07 02:29

    Non sono degna di recensire! Leopardi È un'anima da capire...

  • Breslin White
    2018-10-14 09:27

    In this seemingly good English translation of Mr. Townsend, we get a rare look at Italian syntax which is unseen in English. Take a look at the following poem:To The SpringNow that the sun the faded charmsOf heaven again restores,And gentle zephyr the sick air revives,And the dark shadows of the cloudsAre put to flight,And birds their naked breasts confideUnto the wind, and the soft light,With new desire of love, and with new hope,The conscious beasts, in the deep woods,Amid the melting frosts, inspires;May not to you, poor human souls, Weary, and overborne with brief,The happy age return, which misery,And truth's dark torch, before its time, consumed? ...A personal favorite of mine is the poem which goes on about the outrages of the destruction of a volcano. Having not been able to locate it, I offer this metrical poem in its place:Calm After StormThe storm hath passed;I hear the birds rejoice; the hen,Returned into the road again, Her cheerful notes repeats. The sky sereneIs, in the west, upon the mountain seen:The country smiles; bright runs the silver stream.Each heart is cheered; on every side revive The sounds, the labors of the busy hive.The workman gazes at the watery sky,As standing at the door he sings,His work in hand; the little wife goes forth,And in her pail the gathered rain-drops brings; The vendor of his wares, from lane to lane,Begins his daily cry again. ...

  • Marie-aimée
    2018-10-14 04:34

    Un magnifique recueil de poésies que j'ai découvert bien trop tard! Leopardi donne une toute autre dimension au "moi" romantique. Les premiers chants sont des odes à l'Italie, où les références à l'histoire antique sont nombreuse (on reconnaît là les passions et études de Leopardi). Ce que j'ai aimé de ce recueil, en plus du de l'évolution, de la véhémence patriotique aux idylles amoureuses, c'est la capacité, ou plutôt le génie de l'auteur a avoir su rendre universel les sentiments de l'amour, de la solitude et du malheur, sans faire du "moi" un niais ou un égoïste. Voyez dans "l'Infini" : "Je les compare : et l'éternel, il me souvient,Et les mortes saisons, et la présenteEt vive, et son chant. Ainsi par cetteImmensité ma pensée s'engloutit:Et dans cette eau il m'est doux de sombrer."Ou dans "le Renouveau" :"Pourtant l'ancien amourDe ces pleurs était la cause :Au fin fond de mon seinMon cœur vivait toujours"Même si mon italien est déplorable, j'ai apprécié pouvoir lire le texte original pour entendre sa sonorité. Amateur de poésie romantique n'oubliez pas de lire Leopardi aux côtés de Wordsworth!

  • J.W. Dionysius Nicolello
    2018-10-19 05:18

    Leopardi makes me want to write serious poetry. Ordering copies of this and that colossal Z book. Hart Crane nightmare. Bacchic orgy. Shipwreck Italia. Spleen.

  • Mehmet Bozkurt
    2018-10-19 07:16

    Aşk ve ölüm üzerine bilgelikle bakan bir şair Giacomo Leopardi. Aynı dönemde, uzaklaşma ve ölüm üzerine yarı fantastik öykülerini okuduğum bir başka italyan yazar Dino Buzzati ile tema açısından paralel bir okuma oldu. Özellikle Çöl çiçeği'nin, fragmanların ve Simonides çevirilerinin zihnimde uzun süre kalacağını düşündüğüm etkileri oldu.

  • Antonio Gallo
    2018-10-15 09:21

    Tra i top cento libri dell'anno 2011 nella lista del NYT questo libro è un evento editoriale. Nei piani alti, svetta un italiano del XIX secolo, il conte Giacomo Leopardi. I Canti del poeta recanatese sono infatti usciti nella traduzione inglese di Jonathan Galassi per l'editore Farrar, Straus & Giroux. Storia travagliata, quella di Leopardi in inglese. Qualcuno che non ha memoria corta ricorderà la battaglia per reperire i centomila euro necessari per portare a compimento la traduzione in inglese dello Zibaldone. Si concluse con un assegno staccato da Silvio Berlusconi in persona, dopo una campagna giornalistica in cui gli «ignorantoni» di destra furono isolatissimi protagonisti. Per gli intelligentoni di sinistra, «Leopardi non era abbastanza pop» (testuale giudizio di un importante caporedattore sezione cultura di un giornale de sinistra). Il Cav non fu quasi ringraziato dai beneficati, che temevano per le proprie carriere universitarie. Storia vecchia. Non c'è traccia di questo fatto nella presentazione editoriale del volume e non me ne meraviglio. Vedremo se se ne ricorderanno quando verrà pubblicata la preannunciata pubblicazione dello "Zibaldone". La faziosità non ha mai limite quando l'odio acceca gli animi e uccide l'arte. Il nostro grande Poeta meritava di essere fatto conoscere al grande pubblico di lingua inglese. Una lacuna che andava colmata.Il quotidiano americano chiosa così il sesto posto di Giacomo Leopardi: «Con questa traduzione, potrebbe diventare importante per la letteratura americana quanto Rilke e Baudelaire». Noi sappiamo bene che Leopardi non ha nulla da invidiare sia al tedesco che al francese. Erano loro, gli americani e i lettori anglosassoni, a non saperlo.

  • Alexander Akyna
    2018-10-21 06:32

    Leopardi feels like a pure drop in an ocean of noise. I highly recommended him to those who want some antidote to contemporary art, contemporary poetry, e-love affairs and one-night stands, shalowness, foolishness, irony… An antidote to living in the city too. Compared to French XIX century poets, Leopardi sounds like a man from the XVI century or even from Dante's times, and, paradoxically or not, that's what makes him great. Leopardi wrote like an alien, indeed. A loose translation that I hope will do:To HimselfNow will you rest forever,
Weary heart of mine. Dead is the last deception,
That I thought eternal. Dead. Well I feel
In us the sweet illusionsNot only hope but desire extincted.
Rest forever. You have
Trembled enough. Nothing is worth
Thy beats, nor does the earth deserve
Thy sighs. Bitter and tedious
Is life, there is nought else, and the world is mud.
Rest now. Despair
For the last time. Fate gifted mankindWith nothing but death. Now despise
Yourself, nature, the sinister
Power that secretly commands our
 Common ruin,
And the infinite vanity of everything.

  • Ginny_1807
    2018-10-19 07:13

    A se stesso Or poserai per sempre, stanco mio cor. Perì l'inganno estremo, ch'eterno io mi credei. Perì. Ben sento, in noi di cari inganni, non che la speme, il desiderio è spento. Posa per sempre. Assai palpitasti. Non val cosa nessuna i moti tuoi, né di sospiri è degna la terra. Amaro e noia la vita, altro mai nulla; e fango è il mondo. T'acqueta omai. Dispera l'ultima volta. Al gener nostro il fato non donò che il morire. Omai disprezza te, la natura, il brutto poter che, ascoso, a comun danno impera, e l'infinita vanità del tutto. Leopardi è stato il mio grande amore al liceo...e anche adesso.

  • Ayan Scratuglia
    2018-10-19 02:25

    "These solitary hills have always been dear to me.Seated here, this sweet hedge, which blocks the distant horizon opening inner silences and interminable distances. I plunge in thought to where my heart, frightened, pulls back.Like the wind which I hear tossing the trembling plants which surround me, a voice from the inner depths of spirit shakes the certitudes of thought.Eternity breaks through time, past and present intermingle in her image. In the inner shadows I lose myself, drowning in the sea-depths of timeless love." Infinite

  • Salvatore Del Giudice
    2018-09-30 08:34

    Il viaggio poetico nella nevrosi urbana prima ancora che nasca il mondo industrializzato occidentale, una ricerca disperata di sè, un senso di disorientamento totale, una vita che sembra non valga la pena di essere vissuta se non per raccontare la sua caoticità a chi si accinge a vivere, appunto. Nemmeno Leopardi sa cosa volere e cosa cercare, e le sue poesie costringono la nostra mente a prendere coscienza che in realtà nessuno di noi sa cosa vuole nè cosa cerca.

  • Fede
    2018-10-20 05:20

    Non credo esistano parole adatte ad esprimere adeguatamente la bellezza di questi componimenti.Ogni volta che leggo questa raccolta mi lascio trasportare in un universo quasi magico, onirico, da cui è difficile distaccarsi e completamente impossibile non lasciarsi coinvolgere almeno un po'. Leggere i componimenti di Giacomo Leopardi mi fa sentire viva.

  • Marc
    2018-10-10 07:20

    Read in Dutch translation. Very cumbersome and dark undertone. Some gems: XIX to Count Carlo Pepoli: life doesn't make sense, but we try to live it; is a program poem!XXV on Saturdays in the village: beautiful, restrained description, with wistful undertone; XXVI the overriding thought: perfect ode to love, in this valley of tears; much more cordial and brisk than all other poems together

  • 0
    2018-10-22 01:26

    Wild BroomFragrant broom,content with deserts:here on the arid slope of Vesuvius,that formidable mountain, the destroyer,that no other tree or flower adorns,you scatter your lonelybushes all around. I’ve seen beforehow you beautify empty placeswith your stems, circling the Cityonce the mistress of the world,and it seems that with their grave,silent, aspect they bear witness,reminding the passer-byof that lost empire.Now I see you again on this soil,a lover of sad places abandoned by the world,a faithful friend of hostile fortune.These fields scatteredwith barren ash, coveredwith solid lava,that resounds under the traveller’s feet:where snakes twist, and couplein the sun, and the rabbits returnto their familiar cavernous burrows:were once happy, prosperous farms.They were golden with corn, echoedto lowing cattle:there were gardens and palaces,the welcome leisure retreatsfor powerful, famous cities,which the proud mountain crushedwith all their people, beneath the torrentsfrom its fiery mouth. Now all aroundis one ruin,where you root, gentle flower, and as thoughcommiserating with others’ loss, senda perfume of sweetest fragrance to heaven,that consoles the desert. Let thosewho praise our existence visitthese slopes, to see how carefullyour race is nurturedby loving Nature. And herethey can justly estimateand measure the power of humankind,that the harsh nurse, can with a slight movement,obliterate one part of, in a moment, when weleast fear it, and with a little less gentlea motion, suddenly,annihilate altogether.The ‘magnificent and progressive fate’of the human raceis depicted in this place.Proud, foolish century, look,and see yourself reflected,you who’ve abandonedthe path, marked by advancing thoughttill now, and reversed your steps,boasting of this regressionyou call progress.All the intellectuals, whose evil fategave them you for a father,praise your babbling, thoughthey often make a mockeryof you, among themselves. But I’llnot vanish into the grave in shame:As far as I can, I’ll demonstrate,the scorn for you, openly,that’s in my heart,though I know oblivion crushesthose hated by their own time.I’ve already mocked enoughat that fate I’ll share with you.You pursue Freedom, yet want thoughtto be slave of a single age again:by thought we’ve risen a little higherthan barbarism, by thought alone civilisationgrows, only thought guides public affairstowards the good.The truth of your harsh fateand the lowly place Nature gave youdisplease you so. Because of ityou turn your backs on the lightthat illuminated you: and in flight,you call him who pursues it vile,and only him great of heartwho foolishly or cunningly mocks himselfor others, praising our human state above the stars.A man generous and noble of soul,of meagre powers and weak limbs,doesn’t boast and call himselfstrong and rich in possessions,doesn’t make a foolish pretenceof splendid living or cutting a finefigure among the crowd:but allows himself to appearas lacking wealth and power,and says so, openly, and givesa true value to his worth.I don’t consider a mana great-hearted creature, but stupid,who, born to die, nurtured in pain,says he is made for joy,and fills pages with the stenchof pride, promisingan exalted destiny on earth,and a new happiness, unknown to heavenmuch less this world, to peoplewhom a surging wave, a breathof malignant air, a subterranean tremor,destroys so utterly that theyscarcely leave a memory behind.He has a noble naturewho dares to raise his voiceagainst our common fate,and with an honest tongue,not compromising truth,admits the evil fate allotted us,our low and feeble state:a nature that shows itselfstrong and great in suffering,that does not add to its miseries with fraternalhatred and anger, things worsethan other evils, blaming mankindfor its sorrows, but places blameon Her who is truly guilty, who is the motherof men in bearing them, their stepmother in malice.They call her enemy:and considerthe human raceto be united, and ranked against her,from of old, as is true,judge all men allies, embraceall with true love, offering sincereprompt support, and expecting itin the various dangers and anguishof the mutual war on her. And thinkit as foolish to take up arms against menand set up nets and obstaclesagainst their neighbours as it would be in war,surrounded by the opposing army, in the mostintense heat of battle,to start fierce struggles with friends,forgetting the enemy,to incite desertion, and wave their swordsamong their own forces.If such thoughts were revealedto the crowd, as they used to be,along with the horror that firstbrought men together in social contractagainst impious Nature,then by true wisdomthe honest, lawful intercourseof citizens would be partly renewed,and justice and piety, would ownto another root than foolish pride,on which the morals of the crowdare as well foundedas anything else that’s based on error.Often I sit here, at night,on these desolate slopes,that a hardened lava-flow has clothedwith brown, and which seem to undulate still,and over the gloomy waste,I see the stars flame, highin the purest blue,mirrored far off by the sea:the universe glittering with sparksthat wheel through the tranquil void.And then I fix my eyes on those lightsthat seem pin-pricks,yet are so vast in formthat earth and sea are really a pin-prickto them: to whom man,and this globe where man is nothing,are completely unknown: and gazingat those still more infinitely remote,knots, almost, of stars,that seem like mist to us, to whichnot only man and earth but allour stars, infinite in number and mass,with the golden sun,are unknown, or seem like pointsof misted light, as they appearfrom earth: what do you seem like,then, in my thoughts, O childrenof mankind? And mindful ofyour state here below, of whichthe ground I stand on bears witness,and that, on the other hand, you believethat you’ve been appointed the masterand end of all things: and how oftenyou like to talk about the creatorsof all things universal, who descendedto this obscure grain of sand called earth,for you, and happily spoke to you, often:and that, renewing these ridiculous dreams,you still insult the wise, in an agethat appears to surpass the restin knowledge and social customs: what feeling is it,then, wretched human race, what thoughtof you finally pierces my heart?I don’t know if laughter or pity prevails.As a little apple that falls from a tree:late autumn ripeness,and nothing else, bringing it to earth:crushes, wastes, and coversin a moment, the sweet nestsof a tribe of ants, carved outof soft soil, with vast labour,and the works, the wealth,that industrious race had viedto achieve, with such effort,and created in the summer: so the citiesof the farthest shoresthat the sea bathed,were shattered, confounded, coveredin a few moments, by a night of ruin,by ashes, lava and stones,hurled to the heights of heavenfrom the womb of thunder,falling again from above,mingled in molten streams,or by the vast overflowof liquefied masses,metals and burning sand,descending the mountainsideracing over the grass: so that nowthe goats graze above them,and new cities rise beside them, whose baseis their buried, demolished wallsthat the cruel mountain seems to crush underfoot.Nature has no more love or carefor the seed of manthan for the ants: and if the destructionof one is rarer than that of the other,it’s for no other reasonthan that mankind is less rich in offspring.Fully eighteen hundred yearshave passed, since those once-populated citiesvanished, crushed by fiery force,yet the farmer intenton his vines, this deadand ashen soil barely nourishes,still lifts his gazewith suspicion,to the fatal peakthat sits there brooding,no gentler than ever, still threateningto destroy him, his children, and hismeagre possessions. And oftenthe wretch, lying awakeon the roof of his house, wherethe wandering breezes blow at night,jumps up now and again, and checksthe course of the dreadful boiling,that pours from that inexhaustible laponto its sandy slopes, and illuminatesthe bay of Capri, the portsof Naples and Mergellina.And if he sees it nearing, or hearsthe water bubbling, feverishly, deepin the well, he wakes his children, quicklywakes his wife, and fleeing, with whateverof their possessions they can grasp,watches from the distance, as his familiarhome, and the little fieldhis only defence against hunger,fall prey to the burning tide,crackling as it arrives, inexorablyspreading over all this, and hardening.Lifeless Pompeii returns to the light of heavenafter ancient oblivion, like a buriedskeleton, that piety or the greedfor land gives back to the open air:and, from its empty forum,through the ranks of brokencolumns, the traveller contemplatesthe forked peak and the smoking summit,that still threatens the scattered ruins.And, like night’s secret horror,through the empty theatres,the twisted temples, the shatteredhouses, where the bat hides its brood,like a sinister brandthat circles darkly through silent palaces,the glow of the deathly lava runs,reddening the shadowsfrom far away, staining the region round.So, indifferent to man, and the ageshe calls ancient, and the way descendantsfollow on from their ancestors,Nature, always green, proceeds insteadby so long a routeshe seems to remain at rest. Meanwhile empires fall,peoples and tongues pass: She does not see:and man lays claim to eternity’s merit.And you, slow-growing broom,who adorn this bare landscapewith fragrant thickets,you too will soon succumbto the cruel power of subterranean fire,that, revisiting placesit knows, will stretch its greedy marginover your soft forest. And you’ll bendyour innocent head, without a struggle,beneath that mortal burden:yet a head that’s not been bent in vainin cowardly supplicationbefore a future oppressor: nor liftedin insane pride towards the stars,or beyond the desert, whereyour were born and lived,not through intent, but chance:and you’ll have been so much wiserso much less unsound than man, since youhave never believed your frail species,can be made immortal by yourself, or fate.

  • Andreas Schmidt
    2018-09-22 07:21

    Eppure...Il Leopardi è un ricordo lontano (del resto l'istituzione scolastica italiana propone campioni sparsi qua e là di autori italiani). Ed in effetti a distanza di tanto tempo mi scopro ancora meno interessato alla sua figura e alle sue produzioni, per altro curiose: poesie volte alla classicità, poesie d'amore (per così dire), il pessimismo (uno come l'austriaco Bernhard ne avrebbe da ridire) etc etc. Deve essere stato assolutamente un caso singolare per uno come Giacomo Leopardi, essere costretto dalla sua salute precaria e dal suo titolo nobiliare arcaico e incredibilmente potente in un paese incredibilmente arretrato, stare ad osservare il "volgo" di inizio Ottocento svolgere le funzioni del "volgo" di inizio ottocento, con i loro ritmi, le loro feste e il loro lavoro duro nei campi (alcuni sonetti ne sono l'emblema, per altro studiati a scuola e penso raramente capiti). Un "escluso" per casta, salute, intelletto e conoscenza che soffriva in disparte da un popolo rozzo, ignorante, povero e pur tuttavia più felice di lui (o forse viveva illudendosi che lo fossero).

  • Christopher Louderback
    2018-10-01 04:39

    “This solitary hill has always been dear to meAnd this hedge, which prevents me from seeing most ofThe endless horizon.But when I sit and gaze, I imagine, in my thoughtsEndless spaces beyond the hedge,An all encompassing silence and a deeply profound quiet,To the point that my heart is almost overwhelmed.And when I hear the wind rustling through the treesI compare its voice to the infinite silence.And eternity occurs to me, and all the ages past,And the present time, and its sound.Amidst this immensity my thought waves:And to drown in this sea is sweet to me.” ― Giacomo Leopardi

  • Matthew Smith
    2018-10-07 02:28

    I really wanted to like this. I bought it in Rome, for way too much, just because I wanted to be reading an Italian poet while traveling in Italy. And I love weighty, gloomy misanthropes. I have been in thrall to Nietzsche for a decade, I dig Schopenhauer; my taste in songwriters skews towards wordy, pensive loners. But this dude is just petulant. Perhaps a lot is lost translating him out of Italian; in English, there are some lovely images here and there, and some really interesting musings and connections. Yet for the most part, he is just so intolerably morose. He's like Morrissey, without the Wildean self-awareness of his own posturing. If this dude is so glum about the state of Italy in the late 19th century that he just can't stop fulminating about it, he would never survive 2017, and his spirit offers very little nutrition for a person in our times. I made it like 1/4 of the way through. I will try again eventually. But this dude was not rewarding my efforts.

  • ValeforDM
    2018-10-01 06:14

    A fantastic edition of Leopardi's best, recounting all of his major life events in a clear, linear fashion which matches the chronological presentation of his poems so that the reader will always understand what feelings are moving him to write and under what circumstances.

  • Gina López
    2018-10-22 01:22

    Leopardi permite ver el mundo de una manera hermosamente real.

  • Agustina Bogado
    2018-09-29 03:23

    No fue lo mejor que leí. Demasiado pesimismo para mi gusto. Lectura obligatoria universitaria

  • ItaloPerazzoli
    2018-09-28 01:27

    The Last Song Of Sappho (Leopardi)Thou tranquil night, and thou, O gentle rayOf the declining moon; and thou, that o'erThe rock appearest, 'mid the silent grove,The messenger of day; how dear ye were,And how delightful to these eyes, while yetUnknown the furies, and grim Fate! But now,No gentle sight can soothe this wounded soul.Then, only, can forgotten joy revive,When through the air, and o'er the trembling fieldsThe raging south wind whirls its clouds of dust;And when the car, the pondrous car of Jove,Omnipotent, high-thundering o'er our heads,A pathway cleaves athwart the dusky sky.Then would I love with storm-charged clouds to flyAlong the cliffs, along the valleys deep,The headlong flight of frightened flocks to watch,Or hear, upon some swollen river's shoreThe angry billows' loud, triumphant roar.How beautiful thou art, O heaven divine,And thou, O dewy earth! Alas no partOf all this beauty infinite, the godsAnd cruel fate to wretched Sappho gave!To thy proud realms, O Nature, I, a poor,Unwelcome guest, rejected lover, come;To all thy varied forms of loveliness,My heart and eyes, a suppliant, lift in vain.The sun-lit shore hath smiles no more for me,Nor radiant morning light at heaven's gate;The birds no longer greet me with their songs,Nor whispering trees with gracious messages;And where, beneath the bending willows' shade,The limpid stream its bosom pure displays,As I, with trembling and uncertain foot,Oppressed with grief, upon its margin pause,The dimpled waves recoil, as in disdain,And urge their flight along the flowery plain.What fearful crime, what hideous excessHave so defiled me, e'en before my birth,That heaven and fortune frown upon me thus?Wherein have I offended, as a child,When we of evil deeds are ignorant,That thus disfigured, of the bloom of youthBereft, my little thread of life has fromThe spindle of the unrelenting FateBeen drawn? Alas, incautious are thy words!Mysterious counsels all events control,And all, except our grief, is mystery.Deserted children, we were born to weep;But why, is known to those above, alone.O vain the cares, the hopes of earlier years!To idle shows Jove gives eternal swayO'er human hearts. Unless in shining robes arrayed,All manly deeds in arms, or art, or song,Appeal in vain unto the vulgar throng.I die! This wretched veil to earth I cast,And for my naked soul a refuge seekBelow, and for the cruel faults atoneOf gods, the blind dispensers of events.And thou, to whom I have been bound so long,By hopeless love, and lasting faith, and byThe frenzy vain of unappeased desire,Live, live, and if thou canst, be happy here!My cup o'erflows with bitterness, and JoveHas from his vase no drop of sweetness shed,For all my childhood's hopes and dreams have fled.The happiest day the soonest fades away;And then succeed disease, old age, the shadeOf icy death. Behold, alas! Of allMy longed-for laurels, my illusions dear,The end,--the gulf of hell! My spirit proudMust to the realm of Proserpine descend,The Stygian shore, the night that knows no end.Comment:This poem tells the human infelicity and a protest against the nature because, Sappho is ugly.The nature is depicted cruel and even dishuman, depriving the Greek poet of the beauty, a fundamental ingredient for being accepted and loved by her loved one.The voice of Sappho is Giacomo he feels her same sensations, they have in common, the certainty of being rejected.In my opinion the first stanza is more profound it means that the man and the nature will fight for ever, because the nature is lead by physical forces and the poets are lead by sentiments, love and friendship and consciousness.In the second stanza emerges that Sappho does not understand why the nature is so beautiful and her is so ugly.This means that the humanity will suffer for ever and the love is not infinite but finite.Leopardi tells us that we must consider that the love will finish one day.This is an incentive for loving your loved one with all of our forces until the last day (not necessarily our death) but in any case, we are destined to suffer.In other words the true love does not exist in this sensible world, if we want to be happy we must avoid to translate the beauty into a poem, nor virtue, only in this case there will be an harmony between the nature and the humans.