La morte segue i magi

Tuzzi, Hans (2009). La morte segue i magi. Torino: Bollati Boringhieri. 2009.

Un giallo colto e sui generis.

Di solito non leggo i polizieschi, ma questo – che mi ha prestato e raccomandato mia sorella – è diverso dagli altri e si legge con piacere. L’autore, dottissimo, si diverte a inzeppare di citazioni il testo, quasi un pastiche post-moderno alla Scurati.

La Milano del 1984 non è più la mia, che me ne ero andato alla fine degli anni 70 e che mi sono quindi perso la “rivoluzione” (qui le scare quotes ci stanno bene) dei paninari, dei tognoli, dei pillitteri e della Milano da bere. L’ambiente nobiliare (da me appena sfiorato) e borghese (quello sì frequentato un po’ di più) e l’ambientazione sono felicemente descritti e rappresentati (con qualche malizioso accenno d’attualità all’imperatore dei media e presidente del Milan, che qui si chiama ovviamente in un modo diverso).

Ma il giallo non regge proprio: se un lettore perspicace come me – ma non particolarmente attento né allenato cultore del genere – aveva capito tutto o quasi dalla prima comparsa dell’assassino, com’è che il brillante vicequestore Norberto Melis non ci arriva che dopo 300 pagine, e nemmeno per merito suo?

Bella la lode dell’amore coniugale (o quasi, nella fattispecie):

Ma lei, Fiorenza, se ne rese conto in quell’istante, era, al di là di ogni passeggera incomprensione, al di là di ogni screzio, al di là di ogni fertile differenza, era la sua compagna: la sua compagna. Stavano bene insieme, stava bene insieme a lei, come con nessun’altra. Era capirsi senza parole, era pensare le stesse cose delle stesse persone, era vedere il mondo da due punti di vista così vicini tra loro che si sarebbero potuti scambiare per lo stesso punto. [p. 254]

Aggiungerei soltanto: che vedere il mondo da due punti di vista vicini, ma non coincidenti, aggiunge alla nostra visione profondità e prospettiva.

L’autore, ne sono convinto, si è molto divertito a scrivere questo romanzo. E io mi sono divertito abbastanza a leggerlo.

Pubblicato su Recensioni. 3 Comments »

Albatros

Questa è una storia davvero strana.

Cominciamo da Wikipedia:

Gli albatri (Diomedeidae, G.R. Gray 1840) sono uccelli di mare della famiglia Diomedeidae nell’ordine delle Procellariiformes. Vivono negli oceani meridionali e nel nord Oceano Pacifico. Sono assenti nell’Atlantico settentrionale se non come fossili. Sono tra gli uccelli volatili più grandi al mondo e l’albatro urlatore (Diomedea exulans) è l’uccello vivente con l’apertura più grande al mondo. Sono molto efficienti in aria, sfruttando le correnti aeree e sono in grado di percorrere grandi distanze con poco sforzo.

La storia comincia dall’antico greco kàdos, botticella. La parola passa all’arabo e si trasforma in qadus, secchio, e con l’articolo in al-qadus. Gli arabi arrivano nella penisola iberica e portano con sé al-qadus, che però ora viene riferito anche al pellicano. Credevano infatti che il pellicano, grazie alla forma del suo becco, fosse in grado di affrontare lunghi viaggi nel deserto per raggiungere un oasi e poi tornare al nido, la parte inferiore colma d’acqua come un secchio, per dissetare i piccoli. E così alcaduz in spagnolo e alcatruz/alcatraz in portoghese denotano il pellicano.

Sì, avete indovinato, l’isola su cui si trova il famoso penitenziario di Alcatraz si chiama così perché ospitava una numerosa colonia di pellicani.

Passano gli anni ma – nonostante tutti i progressi della scienza – i marinai non vedono scemare né la loro ignoranza né la loro superstizione.

Quelli inglesi cominciano a storpiare il nome e a chiamare alcatras tutti gli uccelli di grandi dimensioni che incontrano in mare, e in particolare le fregate, in cui i maschi hanno una specie di gozzo rosso sotto il becco (non per portare acqua ai piccoli, ma per attrarre le femmine all’accoppiamento).

Ci siamo quasi. Le fregate sono grandi uccelli marini neri. Gli albatri grandi uccelli marini bianchi. OK, in latino bianco si dice albus? Ecco fatto, albatross.

E la leggenda del vecchio marinaio di Coleridge, che in molti abbiamo studiato a scuola?

L’albatros è un grande volatore (si dice che possa circumnavigare il globo senza posarsi mai), ma è così pesante che decollare gli è difficile, e l’operazione gli riesce più facilmente con un forte vento contrario. Di qui la credenza dei marinai inglesi (ancora loro!) che fosse l’albatros a favorire il vento, e non viceversa.Di qui la disgrazia in cui incorre il vecchio marinaio. Se volete rileggere la poesia, è qui sotto.

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER

IN SEVEN PARTS

By Samuel Taylor Coleridge

PART THE FIRST.

     It is an ancient Mariner,
     And he stoppeth one of three.
     "By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
     Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?

     "The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide,
     And I am next of kin;
     The guests are met, the feast is set:
     May'st hear the merry din."

     He holds him with his skinny hand,
     "There was a ship," quoth he.
     "Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!"
     Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

     He holds him with his glittering eye--
     The Wedding-Guest stood still,
     And listens like a three years child:
     The Mariner hath his will.

     The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:
     He cannot chuse but hear;
     And thus spake on that ancient man,
     The bright-eyed Mariner.

     The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,
     Merrily did we drop
     Below the kirk, below the hill,
     Below the light-house top.

     The Sun came up upon the left,
     Out of the sea came he!
     And he shone bright, and on the right
     Went down into the sea.

     Higher and higher every day,
     Till over the mast at noon--
     The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,
     For he heard the loud bassoon.

     The bride hath paced into the hall,
     Red as a rose is she;
     Nodding their heads before her goes
     The merry minstrelsy.

     The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,
     Yet he cannot chuse but hear;
     And thus spake on that ancient man,
     The bright-eyed Mariner.

     And now the STORM-BLAST came, and he
     Was tyrannous and strong:
     He struck with his o'ertaking wings,
     And chased south along.

     With sloping masts and dipping prow,
     As who pursued with yell and blow
     Still treads the shadow of his foe
     And forward bends his head,
     The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,
     And southward aye we fled.

     And now there came both mist and snow,
     And it grew wondrous cold:
     And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
     As green as emerald.

     And through the drifts the snowy clifts
     Did send a dismal sheen:
     Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken--
     The ice was all between.

     The ice was here, the ice was there,
     The ice was all around:
     It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
     Like noises in a swound!

     At length did cross an Albatross:
     Thorough the fog it came;
     As if it had been a Christian soul,
     We hailed it in God's name.

     It ate the food it ne'er had eat,
     And round and round it flew.
     The ice did split with a thunder-fit;
     The helmsman steered us through!

     And a good south wind sprung up behind;
     The Albatross did follow,
     And every day, for food or play,
     Came to the mariners' hollo!

     In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,
     It perched for vespers nine;
     Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,
     Glimmered the white Moon-shine.

     "God save thee, ancient Mariner!
     From the fiends, that plague thee thus!--
     Why look'st thou so?"--With my cross-bow
     I shot the ALBATROSS.

PART THE SECOND.

     The Sun now rose upon the right:
     Out of the sea came he,
     Still hid in mist, and on the left
     Went down into the sea.

     And the good south wind still blew behind
     But no sweet bird did follow,
     Nor any day for food or play
     Came to the mariners' hollo!

     And I had done an hellish thing,
     And it would work 'em woe:
     For all averred, I had killed the bird
     That made the breeze to blow.
     Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay
     That made the breeze to blow!

     Nor dim nor red, like God's own head,
     The glorious Sun uprist:
     Then all averred, I had killed the bird
     That brought the fog and mist.
     'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,
     That bring the fog and mist.

     The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
     The furrow followed free:
     We were the first that ever burst
     Into that silent sea.

     Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,
     'Twas sad as sad could be;
     And we did speak only to break
     The silence of the sea!

     All in a hot and copper sky,
     The bloody Sun, at noon,
     Right up above the mast did stand,
     No bigger than the Moon.

     Day after day, day after day,
     We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
     As idle as a painted ship
     Upon a painted ocean.

     Water, water, every where,
     And all the boards did shrink;
     Water, water, every where,
     Nor any drop to drink.

     The very deep did rot: O Christ!
     That ever this should be!
     Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
     Upon the slimy sea.

     About, about, in reel and rout
     The death-fires danced at night;
     The water, like a witch's oils,
     Burnt green, and blue and white.

     And some in dreams assured were
     Of the spirit that plagued us so:
     Nine fathom deep he had followed us
     From the land of mist and snow.

     And every tongue, through utter drought,
     Was withered at the root;
     We could not speak, no more than if
     We had been choked with soot.

     Ah! well a-day! what evil looks
     Had I from old and young!
     Instead of the cross, the Albatross
     About my neck was hung.

PART THE THIRD.

     There passed a weary time.  Each throat
     Was parched, and glazed each eye.
     A weary time! a weary time!
     How glazed each weary eye,
     When looking westward, I beheld
     A something in the sky.

     At first it seemed a little speck,
     And then it seemed a mist:
     It moved and moved, and took at last
     A certain shape, I wist.

     A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!
     And still it neared and neared:
     As if it dodged a water-sprite,
     It plunged and tacked and veered.

     With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
     We could not laugh nor wail;
     Through utter drought all dumb we stood!
     I bit my arm, I sucked the blood,
     And cried, A sail! a sail!

     With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
     Agape they heard me call:
     Gramercy! they for joy did grin,
     And all at once their breath drew in,
     As they were drinking all.

     See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more!
     Hither to work us weal;
     Without a breeze, without a tide,
     She steadies with upright keel!

     The western wave was all a-flame
     The day was well nigh done!
     Almost upon the western wave
     Rested the broad bright Sun;
     When that strange shape drove suddenly
     Betwixt us and the Sun.

     And straight the Sun was flecked with bars,
     (Heaven's Mother send us grace!)
     As if through a dungeon-grate he peered,
     With broad and burning face.

     Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)
     How fast she nears and nears!
     Are those her sails that glance in the Sun,
     Like restless gossameres!

     Are those her ribs through which the Sun
     Did peer, as through a grate?
     And is that Woman all her crew?
     Is that a DEATH? and are there two?
     Is DEATH that woman's mate?

     Her lips were red, her looks were free,
     Her locks were yellow as gold:
     Her skin was as white as leprosy,
     The Night-Mare LIFE-IN-DEATH was she,
     Who thicks man's blood with cold.

     The naked hulk alongside came,
     And the twain were casting dice;
     "The game is done!  I've won!  I've won!"
     Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

     The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out:
     At one stride comes the dark;
     With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea.
     Off shot the spectre-bark.

     We listened and looked sideways up!
     Fear at my heart, as at a cup,
     My life-blood seemed to sip!

     The stars were dim, and thick the night,
     The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white;
     From the sails the dew did drip--
     Till clombe above the eastern bar
     The horned Moon, with one bright star
     Within the nether tip.

     One after one, by the star-dogged Moon
     Too quick for groan or sigh,
     Each turned his face with a ghastly pang,
     And cursed me with his eye.

     Four times fifty living men,
     (And I heard nor sigh nor groan)
     With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,
     They dropped down one by one.

     The souls did from their bodies fly,--
     They fled to bliss or woe!
     And every soul, it passed me by,
     Like the whizz of my CROSS-BOW!

PART THE FOURTH.

     "I fear thee, ancient Mariner!
     I fear thy skinny hand!
     And thou art long, and lank, and brown,
     As is the ribbed sea-sand.

     "I fear thee and thy glittering eye,
     And thy skinny hand, so brown."--
     Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest!
     This body dropt not down.

     Alone, alone, all, all alone,
     Alone on a wide wide sea!
     And never a saint took pity on
     My soul in agony.

     The many men, so beautiful!
     And they all dead did lie:
     And a thousand thousand slimy things
     Lived on; and so did I.

     I looked upon the rotting sea,
     And drew my eyes away;
     I looked upon the rotting deck,
     And there the dead men lay.

     I looked to Heaven, and tried to pray:
     But or ever a prayer had gusht,
     A wicked whisper came, and made
     my heart as dry as dust.

     I closed my lids, and kept them close,
     And the balls like pulses beat;
     For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky
     Lay like a load on my weary eye,
     And the dead were at my feet.

     The cold sweat melted from their limbs,
     Nor rot nor reek did they:
     The look with which they looked on me
     Had never passed away.

     An orphan's curse would drag to Hell
     A spirit from on high;
     But oh! more horrible than that
     Is a curse in a dead man's eye!
     Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse,
     And yet I could not die.

     The moving Moon went up the sky,
     And no where did abide:
     Softly she was going up,
     And a star or two beside.

     Her beams bemocked the sultry main,
     Like April hoar-frost spread;
     But where the ship's huge shadow lay,
     The charmed water burnt alway
     A still and awful red.

     Beyond the shadow of the ship,
     I watched the water-snakes:
     They moved in tracks of shining white,
     And when they reared, the elfish light
     Fell off in hoary flakes.

     Within the shadow of the ship
     I watched their rich attire:
     Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,
     They coiled and swam; and every track
     Was a flash of golden fire.

     O happy living things! no tongue
     Their beauty might declare:
     A spring of love gushed from my heart,
     And I blessed them unaware:
     Sure my kind saint took pity on me,
     And I blessed them unaware.

     The self same moment I could pray;
     And from my neck so free
     The Albatross fell off, and sank
     Like lead into the sea.

PART THE FIFTH.

     Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing,
     Beloved from pole to pole!
     To Mary Queen the praise be given!
     She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,
     That slid into my soul.

     The silly buckets on the deck,
     That had so long remained,
     I dreamt that they were filled with dew;
     And when I awoke, it rained.

     My lips were wet, my throat was cold,
     My garments all were dank;
     Sure I had drunken in my dreams,
     And still my body drank.

     I moved, and could not feel my limbs:
     I was so light--almost
     I thought that I had died in sleep,
     And was a blessed ghost.

     And soon I heard a roaring wind:
     It did not come anear;
     But with its sound it shook the sails,
     That were so thin and sere.

     The upper air burst into life!
     And a hundred fire-flags sheen,
     To and fro they were hurried about!
     And to and fro, and in and out,
     The wan stars danced between.

     And the coming wind did roar more loud,
     And the sails did sigh like sedge;
     And the rain poured down from one black cloud;
     The Moon was at its edge.

     The thick black cloud was cleft, and still
     The Moon was at its side:
     Like waters shot from some high crag,
     The lightning fell with never a jag,
     A river steep and wide.

     The loud wind never reached the ship,
     Yet now the ship moved on!
     Beneath the lightning and the Moon
     The dead men gave a groan.

     They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose,
     Nor spake, nor moved their eyes;
     It had been strange, even in a dream,
     To have seen those dead men rise.

     The helmsman steered, the ship moved on;
     Yet never a breeze up blew;
     The mariners all 'gan work the ropes,
     Where they were wont to do:
     They raised their limbs like lifeless tools--
     We were a ghastly crew.

     The body of my brother's son,
     Stood by me, knee to knee:
     The body and I pulled at one rope,
     But he said nought to me.

     "I fear thee, ancient Mariner!"
     Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest!
     'Twas not those souls that fled in pain,
     Which to their corses came again,
     But a troop of spirits blest:

     For when it dawned--they dropped their arms,
     And clustered round the mast;
     Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths,
     And from their bodies passed.

     Around, around, flew each sweet sound,
     Then darted to the Sun;
     Slowly the sounds came back again,
     Now mixed, now one by one.

     Sometimes a-dropping from the sky
     I heard the sky-lark sing;
     Sometimes all little birds that are,
     How they seemed to fill the sea and air
     With their sweet jargoning!

     And now 'twas like all instruments,
     Now like a lonely flute;
     And now it is an angel's song,
     That makes the Heavens be mute.

     It ceased; yet still the sails made on
     A pleasant noise till noon,
     A noise like of a hidden brook
     In the leafy month of June,
     That to the sleeping woods all night
     Singeth a quiet tune.

     Till noon we quietly sailed on,
     Yet never a breeze did breathe:
     Slowly and smoothly went the ship,
     Moved onward from beneath.

     Under the keel nine fathom deep,
     From the land of mist and snow,
     The spirit slid: and it was he
     That made the ship to go.
     The sails at noon left off their tune,
     And the ship stood still also.

     The Sun, right up above the mast,
     Had fixed her to the ocean:
     But in a minute she 'gan stir,
     With a short uneasy motion--
     Backwards and forwards half her length
     With a short uneasy motion.

     Then like a pawing horse let go,
     She made a sudden bound:
     It flung the blood into my head,
     And I fell down in a swound.

     How long in that same fit I lay,
     I have not to declare;
     But ere my living life returned,
     I heard and in my soul discerned
     Two VOICES in the air.

     "Is it he?" quoth one, "Is this the man?
     By him who died on cross,
     With his cruel bow he laid full low,
     The harmless Albatross.

     "The spirit who bideth by himself
     In the land of mist and snow,
     He loved the bird that loved the man
     Who shot him with his bow."

     The other was a softer voice,
     As soft as honey-dew:
     Quoth he, "The man hath penance done,
     And penance more will do."

PART THE SIXTH.

     FIRST VOICE.

     But tell me, tell me! speak again,
     Thy soft response renewing--
     What makes that ship drive on so fast?
     What is the OCEAN doing?

     SECOND VOICE.

     Still as a slave before his lord,
     The OCEAN hath no blast;
     His great bright eye most silently
     Up to the Moon is cast--

     If he may know which way to go;
     For she guides him smooth or grim
     See, brother, see! how graciously
     She looketh down on him.

     FIRST VOICE.

     But why drives on that ship so fast,
     Without or wave or wind?

     SECOND VOICE.

     The air is cut away before,
     And closes from behind.

     Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high
     Or we shall be belated:
     For slow and slow that ship will go,
     When the Mariner's trance is abated.

     I woke, and we were sailing on
     As in a gentle weather:
     'Twas night, calm night, the Moon was high;
     The dead men stood together.

     All stood together on the deck,
     For a charnel-dungeon fitter:
     All fixed on me their stony eyes,
     That in the Moon did glitter.

     The pang, the curse, with which they died,
     Had never passed away:
     I could not draw my eyes from theirs,
     Nor turn them up to pray.

     And now this spell was snapt: once more
     I viewed the ocean green.
     And looked far forth, yet little saw
     Of what had else been seen--

     Like one that on a lonesome road
     Doth walk in fear and dread,
     And having once turned round walks on,
     And turns no more his head;
     Because he knows, a frightful fiend
     Doth close behind him tread.

     But soon there breathed a wind on me,
     Nor sound nor motion made:
     Its path was not upon the sea,
     In ripple or in shade.

     It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek
     Like a meadow-gale of spring--
     It mingled strangely with my fears,
     Yet it felt like a welcoming.

     Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,
     Yet she sailed softly too:
     Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze--
     On me alone it blew.

     Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed
     The light-house top I see?
     Is this the hill? is this the kirk?
     Is this mine own countree!

     We drifted o'er the harbour-bar,
     And I with sobs did pray--
     O let me be awake, my God!
     Or let me sleep alway.

     The harbour-bay was clear as glass,
     So smoothly it was strewn!
     And on the bay the moonlight lay,
     And the shadow of the moon.

     The rock shone bright, the kirk no less,
     That stands above the rock:
     The moonlight steeped in silentness
     The steady weathercock.

     And the bay was white with silent light,
     Till rising from the same,
     Full many shapes, that shadows were,
     In crimson colours came.

     A little distance from the prow
     Those crimson shadows were:
     I turned my eyes upon the deck--
     Oh, Christ! what saw I there!

     Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,
     And, by the holy rood!
     A man all light, a seraph-man,
     On every corse there stood.

     This seraph band, each waved his hand:
     It was a heavenly sight!
     They stood as signals to the land,
     Each one a lovely light:

     This seraph-band, each waved his hand,
     No voice did they impart--
     No voice; but oh! the silence sank
     Like music on my heart.

     But soon I heard the dash of oars;
     I heard the Pilot's cheer;
     My head was turned perforce away,
     And I saw a boat appear.

     The Pilot, and the Pilot's boy,
     I heard them coming fast:
     Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy
     The dead men could not blast.

     I saw a third--I heard his voice:
     It is the Hermit good!
     He singeth loud his godly hymns
     That he makes in the wood.
     He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away
     The Albatross's blood.

PART THE SEVENTH.

     This Hermit good lives in that wood
     Which slopes down to the sea.
     How loudly his sweet voice he rears!
     He loves to talk with marineres
     That come from a far countree.

     He kneels at morn and noon and eve--
     He hath a cushion plump:
     It is the moss that wholly hides
     The rotted old oak-stump.

     The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk,
     "Why this is strange, I trow!
     Where are those lights so many and fair,
     That signal made but now?"

     "Strange, by my faith!" the Hermit said--
     "And they answered not our cheer!
     The planks looked warped! and see those sails,
     How thin they are and sere!
     I never saw aught like to them,
     Unless perchance it were

     "Brown skeletons of leaves that lag
     My forest-brook along;
     When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,
     And the owlet whoops to the wolf below,
     That eats the she-wolf's young."

     "Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look--
     (The Pilot made reply)
     I am a-feared"--"Push on, push on!"
     Said the Hermit cheerily.

     The boat came closer to the ship,
     But I nor spake nor stirred;
     The boat came close beneath the ship,
     And straight a sound was heard.

     Under the water it rumbled on,
     Still louder and more dread:
     It reached the ship, it split the bay;
     The ship went down like lead.

     Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound,
     Which sky and ocean smote,
     Like one that hath been seven days drowned
     My body lay afloat;
     But swift as dreams, myself I found
     Within the Pilot's boat.

     Upon the whirl, where sank the ship,
     The boat spun round and round;
     And all was still, save that the hill
     Was telling of the sound.

     I moved my lips--the Pilot shrieked
     And fell down in a fit;
     The holy Hermit raised his eyes,
     And prayed where he did sit.

     I took the oars: the Pilot's boy,
     Who now doth crazy go,
     Laughed loud and long, and all the while
     His eyes went to and fro.
     "Ha! ha!" quoth he, "full plain I see,
     The Devil knows how to row."

     And now, all in my own countree,
     I stood on the firm land!
     The Hermit stepped forth from the boat,
     And scarcely he could stand.

     "O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!"
     The Hermit crossed his brow.
     "Say quick," quoth he, "I bid thee say--
     What manner of man art thou?"

     Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched
     With a woeful agony,
     Which forced me to begin my tale;
     And then it left me free.

     Since then, at an uncertain hour,
     That agony returns;
     And till my ghastly tale is told,
     This heart within me burns.

     I pass, like night, from land to land;
     I have strange power of speech;
     That moment that his face I see,
     I know the man that must hear me:
     To him my tale I teach.

     What loud uproar bursts from that door!
     The wedding-guests are there:
     But in the garden-bower the bride
     And bride-maids singing are:
     And hark the little vesper bell,
     Which biddeth me to prayer!

     O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been
     Alone on a wide wide sea:
     So lonely 'twas, that God himself
     Scarce seemed there to be.

     O sweeter than the marriage-feast,
     'Tis sweeter far to me,
     To walk together to the kirk
     With a goodly company!--

     To walk together to the kirk,
     And all together pray,
     While each to his great Father bends,
     Old men, and babes, and loving friends,
     And youths and maidens gay!

     Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
     To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!
     He prayeth well, who loveth well
     Both man and bird and beast.

     He prayeth best, who loveth best
     All things both great and small;
     For the dear God who loveth us
     He made and loveth all.

     The Mariner, whose eye is bright,
     Whose beard with age is hoar,
     Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest
     Turned from the bridegroom's door.

     He went like one that hath been stunned,
     And is of sense forlorn:
     A sadder and a wiser man,
     He rose the morrow morn.
Pubblicato su Parole. 1 Comment »

Impagabile Brunetta [2]

Benché non l’abbia mai sollecitato, e forse perché sono un dirigente pubblico (FANNULLONE tuttoalto e grassetto), ricevo immancabilmente la newsletter il VELINO (agenzia di stampa quotidiana nazionale diretta da Daniele Capezzone – e scusate se è poco): “Newsletter tematica, in collaborazione con il Ministero per la Pubblica Amministrazione e l’Innovazione, dedicata all’approfondimento degli argomenti relativi alla PA e all’innovazione. Un appuntamento settimanale con interviste, comunicati, progetti, bandi, leggi e dossier. Ma non solo, anche sondaggi sul rapporto cittadino/Pubblica amministrazione. Per seguire l’iter legislativo di un settore in evoluzione e in profonda trasformazione.”

Non penso sia necessario aggiungere molto. Sul numero che mi è arrivato oggi, 19 ottobre 2009, compariva la notizia seguente, che cito parola per parola:

Brunetta: sogno Venezia, ma porterò a termine l’impegno di ministro

–IL VELINO INNOVAZIONE E PA–

Roma – Resterà ministro o si candiderà a sindaco di Venezia? Da tempo Renato Brunetta viene indicato fra i papabili per la corsa alla poltrona di primo cittadino ora occupata da Massimo Cacciari. A rivolgere di nuovo al titolare della Pa la domanda sul proprio futuro è La Stampa in edicola oggi, lunedì 19 ottobre. “Chiunque faccia politica sogna di diventare sindaco della sua città. Ma io ho preso un altro impegno, di fronte a sessanta milioni di italiani, e lo porterò a termine” ha assicurato Brunetta. (red/riv)

Non sono un assiduo spettatore televisivo. Ma l’altra sera mi è capitato di vedere Brunetta a che contestava a Lilli Gruber le cifre sulle auto blu, vantandosi di essere un appassionato di cifre e producendosi in un convincente calcolo “sul retro di una busta” per dimostrare che le cifre di cui si parla sono fantasiose. Avevo apprezzato. Ma mi ero sbagliato.

O Brunetta è un furbacchione che piega i numeri a suo piacimento (e io la ritengo cosa riprovevole) oppure non sa far di conto (e per me è pure peggio, e si passa dal riprovevole allo spregevole).

  1. Brunetta non ha preso un impegno di fronte a 60 milioni di italiani. O forse sì, se si suppone che tutti guardassero la televisione all’atto del suo giuramento. E allora, forse, anche davanti a qualche milione di non italiani, che si trovavano a vedere quella trasmissione in quel momento. Ma se non vogliamo giocare con le parole, Brunetta il suo impegno l’ha preso soltanto con il Presidente del consiglio dei ministri, Silvio Berlusconi, che gli ha delegato dei compiti specifici (Brunetta è un ministro senza portafoglio).
  2. Brunetta è attento alle parole che usa, ma il suo discorso tende a farci credere che anche lui opera per investitura del popolo (in mano ai demagoghi il popolo è quasi peggio della ggente). Gli ricordiamo che, in questo sistema elettorale (il calderoliano porcellum) il popolo vota i partiti. I partiti scelgono i candidati da eleggere (sui quali gli elettori non hanno possibilità di scegliere alcunché), in base a calcoli più o meno imperscrutabili. Nel caso di Brunetta, tuttavia, pensiamo si possa escludere che gli abbiano dato un posto in lista per la sua avvenenza o perché era stato “carino” con qualche potente.
  3. In ogni caso, sono 60 milioni (da qualche mese, ma non lo erano nell’aprile del 2008) i residenti in Italia. Ma non tutti possono votare alle elezioni politiche per la Camera dei deputati.
  4. Vanno anzitutto esclusi gli stranieri residenti, anche se in Italia risiedono regolarmente e pagano le tasse come me – che le pago (no taxation without representation loro non lo possono dire!). E anche se sono nati in Italia. Stiamo parlando rispettivamente di quasi 4 milioni e di oltre mezzo milione di persone.
  5. Vanno poi esclusi quelli che non hanno diritto al voto, soprattutto per motivi di età (minori di 18 anni, nel caso della Camera dei deputati). Gli aventi diritto al voto, nel 2008, erano circa 45 milioni.
  6. Di questi quasi il 20% non è andato a votare. I voti validi sono stati poco più di 36 milioni.
  7. La coalizione cui appartiene Brunetta ha ottenuto appena più di 17 milioni di voti. Non pochi. Certo più del 50% dei voti validi che ti fa vincere le elezioni (con sostanzioso premio di maggioranza). Ma certo anche molto meno dei 60 milioni di cui parla Brunetta (e con lui il suo capo).

In conclusione, se Brunetta ci tiene tanto a fare il sindaco di Venezia, si candidi tranquillo. 43 milioni di residenti in Italia (il 71,7%) saranno contenti o indifferenti. 17 milioni (il 28,3%), forse, si dispiaceranno di perdere un loro rappresentante in Parlamento. Il presidente del consiglio dei ministri, lui soltanto, dovrà cercare un sostituto: i ministri non li sceglie l’elettorato.

Restano i veneziani, che magari non vogliono Brunetta sindaco. Facciamo così. Lui si dimetta da parlamentare (come fanno le persone serie) e si candidi. Poi decidano gli elettori veneziani. Si chiama democrazia.

Pubblicato su Citazioni, Grrr!. 1 Comment »

The Days of Pearly Spencer

Riemersa dalle torbiere della memoria grazie a una trasmissione radiofonica (File urbani su Radio3).

A tenement, a dirty street
Walked and worn by shoeless feet
In silence long and so complete
Watch by shivering sun.

Old eyes in a small child’s face
Watching as the shadows race
Through walls and cracks that leave no trace
And daylight’s brightness shun

The days of Pearly Spencer,
Ahaha
The race is almost run

Nose pressed hard on frosted glass
Gazing as the swollen mass
On concrete fields where grows no grass
Stumbles blindly on

Iron trees smother the air
But withering they stand and stare
Through eyes that neither know nor care
Where the grass has gone

The days of Pearly Spencer,
Ahaha
The race is almost run

Pearly, where’s your milk-white skin ?
What’s that stubble on your chin ?
It’s buried in the rotgut gin
You’ve played and lost, not won

You played a house that can’t be beat
Now look, your head’s bowed in defeat
You walked too far along the street
Where only rats can run

The days of Pearly Spencer,
Ahaha
The race is almost run

David McWilliams, l’autore, era nato nel 1945 a Belfast (è morto nel 2002, a soli 56 anni) e apparteneva al giro dei Them (Van Morrison!). Questa canzone, del 1967, non entrò in classifica nel Regno Unito ma divenne piuttosto nota nell’Europa continentale.

La canzone ha avuto tantissime cover. La più famosa, in Italia, fu quella di Caterina Caselli, che nel 1968 la portò al successo al Cantagiro.

Nel 1986 la riprese Ivan Cattaneo: chi se lo ricorda?. Dimenticabile!

Ancora più di recente, Elisa. Io, di mio, continuo a preferire la Caselli.

Negli Stati Uniti fu incisa da The Grass Roots, un gruppo abbastanza specializzato in cover (oltre a quella di Ballad of a Thin Man di Bob Dylan, che compare nella colonna sonora di Good Morning Vietnam, nel 1969  incisero e portarono al 21° posto delle classifiche statunitensi Balla Linda di Lucio Battisti).

In Francia l’hanno incisa, nel 1988, i Vietnam Veterans, in una versione tra lo psichedelico e il grunge…

Il cerchio si chiude quando nel 1991 la incide Marc Almond (non senza averci aggiunto, di suo, un’ultima strofa che attenua il finale disperato dell’originale) e la porta al successo anche nel Regno Unito, dove raggiunge il 4° posto in classifica nel 1991.

A tenement, a dirty street
Remember worn and shoeless feet
Remember how you stood to beat
The way your life had gone
So Pearly don’t you shed more tears
For those best forgotten years
Those tenements are memories
Of where you’ve risen from

Pubblicato su Musica. Leave a Comment »

Lo sputtanamento

Lo so, ci avranno pensato in tanti. Ma non resisto lo stesso a metterlo.

La canzone, del 1978, è di Renato Pozzetto, Cochi Ponzoni ed Enzo Jannacci.

La la la la la la-là la la la
la la la la la la-là la la
la la la la la la-là la la la
la la la la la la-là la la

E lo sputtanamento olé,
e lo sputtanamento che cos’è
forse è voglia di orinare senza mai farsi capire
ma la scarpa è già bagnata
e la patta disagiata
già c’è fuori il pendolone
fischia il vento nel calzone
olé olé
olé olé.

E lo sputtanamento olé,
e lo sputtanamento che cos’è
forse è voglia d’imparare
abbracciare e non toccare
ma è già largo il pantalone
e robusto il pendolone
dico che è maleducato
quel che l’hanno già sgonfiato
olé olé
olé olé.

E lo sputtanamento olé,
e lo sputtanamento che cos’è
è guardare il suo balcone
che si sa che non è in casa
è andata via a fare una cosa
sul balcone c’è le rose
e la luce ancora accesa
poi c’è lui che sputa giù
uh uh
uh uh
uh uh
uh uh

E così un bel momento olé,
c’è lo sputtanamento olé
e così un bel momento olé,
c’è lo sputtanamento olé
olé olé
olé olé
olé olé
olé olé.

la la la la la la-là la la la
la la la la la la-là la la
la la la la la la-là la la la
la la la la la la-là la la

la la la la la la-là la la la
la la la la la la-là la la
la la la la la la-là la la la
la la la la la la-là la la

la la la la la la-là la la la
la la la la la la-là la la
la la la la la la-là la la la
la la la la la la-là la la

la la la la la la-là la la la
la la la la la la-là la la
[sfumando]
la la la la la la-là la la la
la la la la la la-là la la

Questa è la versione dal vivo del solo Cochi Ponzoni, dalla leggendaria trasmissione di Paolo Rossi Su la testa.

Obituary: Edith Piaf (10 ottobre 1963)

Il ritardo del mio convoglio aumenta …

Muore di cancro al fegato, dopo una vita dissoluta e scandalosa. E allora l’arcivescovo di Parigi le nega il funerale religioso. Ma 100.000 parigini seguono comunque il corteo funebre.

Non, je ne regrette rien è l’orgoglioso inno dei perdenti di tutto il mondo, da cantare con le lacrime agli occhi e un nodo alla gola. Ma nelle intenzioni della Piaf era una canzone politica, e di destra se per quello, dedicata alla Legione straniera ai tempi della guerra d’Algeria.

Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien
Non, Rien De Rien, Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien
Ni Le Bien Qu’on M’a Fait, Ni Le Mal
Tout Ca M’est Bien Egal
Non, Rien De Rien, Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien
C’est Paye, Balaye, Oublie, Je Me Fous Du Passe
Avec Mes Souvenirs J’ai Allume Le Feu
Mes Shagrins, Mes Plaisirs,
Je N’ai Plus Besoin D’eux
Balaye Les Amours Avec Leurs Tremolos
Balaye Pour Toujours
Je Reparas A Zero
Non, Rien De Rien, Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien
Ni Le Bien Qu’on M’a Fait, Ni Le Mal
Tout Ca M’est Bien Egal
Non, Rien De Rien, Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien
Car Ma Vie, Car Me Joies
Aujourd’hui Ca Commence Avec Toi

Sarà una risaia che vi seppellirà

Roma, 4 nubifragi in 4 giorni. E oggi una tromba d’aria.

roma.repubblica.it

roma.repubblica.it