The lucky family is the further translation requested to Laura by Enzo Migliaccio, founder of the Imagaenaria bookshop in Ischia Ponte and of the publishing house of the same name, author of the series Works from three pennies for four catsthat I had already mentioned for La Pietra Cantante.
Frida’s passion published by tre60 is also the passion of Caroline Bernard pseudonym of Tanie Schlie who for her twenty-seventh birthday receives the biography of Frida Kahlo written by Hayden Herrera and begins a journey of immersion in everything that revolves around the artist.
On her website in the foreground the sentence: “And then I sit in Parisat the Café de Flore and I order my inspiration” … same Café de Flore in which Frida also sits on page 270.
The book also talks about a small café called La risa: laughter, but above all it talks about the PASSION mentioned in the title.
A passion so strong and visceral as to be unique and unrepeatable, a real bond made of earth, painting and blood that Frida Kahlo reports not only on her works but also in every single moment of her life.
A painful life, a life without discounts, never.
I particularly received inspiration in terms of living with pain, but it was other types of suffering that raged on Frida that came to me with the same intensity of her determination.
That hole in her heart remains indelible.
But superior is the strength with which her example arrives of how the will transcends the physical, managing to touch the impossible.
As much as fate is cruel.
At her death, her personal items were collected and banned from the public for a period of fifteen years at the behest of her husband Diego Rivera, but in reality the years passed before they were exhibited are fifty.
Among the photographs available thanks to The Guardian I was struck by the boots. Observe them well.
… Unfortunately a cancer prevented her from continuing to write and interrupted her life at the age of 47.
Her personal story struck me a lot and as often happens to me, the feelings I feel lead me to find details that somehow find a relocation in my history and in my world.
In 1984, a year that occupies a particularly important place in my memories, Siobhan joined the PEN International, an organization that celebrates literature, defends free expression (and I emphasize this because lately it is becoming a much less obvious concept), protect writers at risk, support writers in exile, promote linguistic rights.
With the earnings and royalties from the sale of his books Siobhan wanted to give young people the opportunity to read and appreciate literature by founding The Siobhan Dowd Trust to support worthy projects.
Love for writing, love for freedom, love for kids, love for Ireland = maximum esteem.
And as for “Bog child” in Italy the title has been tranlated like this: The little girl forgotten by time… what else can these words mean?
IMAGAENARIA is an old-fashioned bookshop, as less and less are found in Italy … the presentation looks like the beginning of a fairy tale and I honestly still am enchanted when I read these things and I feel grateful for the precious recovery of unjustly forgotten works of literature from every time and country.
Vilhelm Bergsøewho I discovered a frequenter of the Caffè Greco in Rome as a member of the Scandinavian Circle was a zoologist and in his book a meticulous and dedicated attention to Nature in all its aspects.
While I was reading, I never stopped imagining Laura intent on her translation work: which must not have been easy at all and for which I can only congratulate her endlessly.
I don’t know about you, but very often, reading books by foreign authors, I do not dwell sufficiently on the scope of the work of those who translate, which undoubtedly plays an essential role.
It is far from simple in fact to recreate the same atmospheres that the author generates with his completely personal way of writing and to keep faith with the original writing style.
Writing is the painting of the voice.
I believe that this quote by Voltaire contains the essence of what level the necessary competence must reach to translate “painting” into another language.
Among other things, The singing Stone is very rich in detailed descriptions of the environment and vegetation, with names of plants that I, for example, did not even know.
A book that has the power to carry the reader on the same path to discover a part of the island of Ischia known only to those who were born there, and who have handed down the stories of their ancestors.
An exploration in nature, but also in time, among the legends that I particularly love and which reunite natural phenomena with the history experienced by the people, in a complete immersion in the magical atmosphere of the place.
Obviously I don’t want to completely reveal the identity of the singing Stone so as not to spoil the pleasure of discovery, which I advise you not to miss.
Rather, we will reconfirm my highest esteem to Laura. Again and again thank you!
“Il traghettatore” which is not proper to translate simply with the ferryman, initially made me think of something else, I don’t really mean Charon, even if in fact my mind inevitably associates the idea, but I would not have guessed who or what would be the object of the transfer despite the clue suggested to me from Monica: once again this reading is thanks to her.
Annalisa Menin, branding and communication expert, moved to New York realizing a dream common to many.
But life teaches each of us that if on the one hand it gives, on the other it takes away… sometimes in a ruthless and cruel way. The appointment with Annalisa’s destiny is for the day after her thirtieth birthday: the day her husband Marco dies.
Among the pains to be faced, there is also a decision to make: stay in New York or return to Italy?
And the blog became a book but also a charity initiative in favor of young Italian students eager to live the same American dream: Remembering Marco.
Then? And then five years passed and the need to tell stories, not to forget, became the need to be reborn. The transition had to take place.
Heart in transit.
And Il traghettatore was born.
Very often Monica and I discuss how to face mourning, how to live as survivors.
Everyone has their own story, but those who have known the pain of loss can see the shell hyding the suffering of those who have experienced similar pain, which is not the same for anyone.
But with this book Monica also gave me another trip: I often repeat that if I had a time machine I would like to go to New York in the 80s.
And although this reading did not teleport me into the past, I still had the opportunity to “see” through the words of the author places, roads, details, I could “feel tastes,” imagine “perfumes” and I breathed the air of New York.
Curious coincidence on page 405: even my grandmother said exactly the same words to me: the beautiful silence was never written. And this is a quote that will remain with me forever.
I conclude with another sentence from the book which I feel as absolutely “mine:” The sense of guilt is that gift that you never stop receiving.
This time I strongly hope that it is not the same for you.