Once upon the holy times, the skies split open and an immense thunder shook the Earth. The Holy Ghost came down upon the Head of Him and remained in Him. Years later, in the moment of His dead, the walls of the Temple cracked apart and in the midst of a deafening storm, the Holy Ghost departed the Man and dissipated among men, in the same way a precious and costly perfume diffuses in the air after the container glass falls down and breaks against the floor and scatters in a thousand pieces.
The essence of a culture is in the hearts of their individuals. The glass of perfume is on them, not upon the Head of any abstruse Idea of State, not behind the heroes, the wars of independence or the National Anthems. The path of a nation is always sweet-bitter and its contrivances, deceiving, arguable and disappointing. The land of ideas and identities is barren and the faith in a big destiny, a big trouble maker. But the essence of a culture runs warm in the blood of its individuals and carries on the truth of the present and the immediate past; the lies and violence of the mythological times, ages past, are left behind, it must be!, all the pretensions of the cold Intellect. The contact among individuals, cheek to cheek or heart to heart, the exchange and dissipation of this warmth spirit streaming underneath, the fire of friendship, it is all worthy and real, a true fest of Initiation, like those of the Canadian Waxarika and the Colombian Kogui. Like Indiana Jones on the verge of drinking the blood of the Alliance.
If someone asks me what I know about Italy, for example, I could mention the mafia of the garbage (the first act of corruption of PSOE after Franco in Spain was, precisely, an issue with garbage illegal contracts in Alicante), but mostly I would say that Veronica Baldaccini is from Sardinia, pretty and passionate, who always wanted to do what she does now; that Balotelli, perhaps the only black guy in Italy, was abandoned in Palermo when he was 2 and, later on, fostered by somebody in the North and that he speaks perfect Italian. That serves me to locate Palermo in the map. I would be able to say, also, that the pasta orechiette, a sort of small patches resembling small ears, is original from Puglia, and that you have two varieties of Pecorino cheese, the Roman and the Sardo. The salty and more matured Roman variety is to be grated only.
If you prepare pasta with broccoli you should not add the salt until the broccoli is done; the same water is used to cook the pasta, and broccoli takes ages to boil in salty water and all water would be gone by then. I would not share here the secret to cook pasta al dente, not the simple but magic touch of mantecare, not the way to apply it to a chicken or prawn risotto: it is a culinary secret. I could also say that Robert De Niro speaks perfect Sicilian in The Godfather and that Al Pacino accent is crap. I could follow a conversation linking the recent earthquakes in Bologna with some drilling works in course and I would point out to the entertaining data of the Instituto Nazionale di Geofisica e Vulcanologia (INGV). Then, we could comment on the predictions of Giampaolo Giuliani and his method to track quakes faster and more efficient and his story: what is it true? What scam?
I can see a group of serious and dour faces playing the Allegro ma non troppo movement of a simphony by Dvorak, Beethoven or Weber and, on the other corner of the room, I can see V., an Italian woman, laughing happily, hardly believing that serious minds could have just invented such a term: it sounds like a funny joke. I can see the conductor giving instructions: hey, boys! Allegro.... Ma non troppo, ehhh? I could also pretend to be illustrated by mentioning that the school boys in Italy read over and over again The Divine Comedy and that in IT terminology, the computer who first spreads a virus is called untori, word that Alessandro Manzoni used to refer to the people falling into the claws of the plague in I promessi sposi (1822). I could tell you a fantastic story related to Riccardo Cocciante's Margherita and I could sing to you the first two verses of Non e buona by Adriano Celentano. And I could save to my ears the details of intonation, sounds and interjections, which makes everything so alive and sparky. And so on. When I come back to Rome, I will go to Il Necci for lunch or, perhaps, for supper and drinks at dusk, and I would remember the connection of this place with Pasolini, and everything would taste better, more real.
And this is enough for me... . The most valuable knowledge in the world, and the most valuable experience. Italy is becoming a blossoming romance. And many other fragmented pieces of knowledge (the wonderful Roman Stories of Moravia, the History of Indro Montanelli, the poignant criticism of Fallaci, the scene of Anna Magnani bellowing from a stall of fruits, the Italian cinema, its forbidden beauties and impossible monsters, the songs of Tozzi, the festival di Sanremo and Luigi Tenco's Mi sono innamorato di te, the AC Milan of Van Basten, Gullit and Maldini, and the stories of D.M., the priest, riding a Vespa and "smuggling" bottles of wine into the Seminar in the 70s), become tastier, burning and magnificent when connected with the little pieces of human experience which brought them to my knowledge: memories in a heart.
(PLEASE, LEAVE YOUR COMMENT).
The essence of a culture is in the hearts of their individuals. The glass of perfume is on them, not upon the Head of any abstruse Idea of State, not behind the heroes, the wars of independence or the National Anthems. The path of a nation is always sweet-bitter and its contrivances, deceiving, arguable and disappointing. The land of ideas and identities is barren and the faith in a big destiny, a big trouble maker. But the essence of a culture runs warm in the blood of its individuals and carries on the truth of the present and the immediate past; the lies and violence of the mythological times, ages past, are left behind, it must be!, all the pretensions of the cold Intellect. The contact among individuals, cheek to cheek or heart to heart, the exchange and dissipation of this warmth spirit streaming underneath, the fire of friendship, it is all worthy and real, a true fest of Initiation, like those of the Canadian Waxarika and the Colombian Kogui. Like Indiana Jones on the verge of drinking the blood of the Alliance.
If someone asks me what I know about Italy, for example, I could mention the mafia of the garbage (the first act of corruption of PSOE after Franco in Spain was, precisely, an issue with garbage illegal contracts in Alicante), but mostly I would say that Veronica Baldaccini is from Sardinia, pretty and passionate, who always wanted to do what she does now; that Balotelli, perhaps the only black guy in Italy, was abandoned in Palermo when he was 2 and, later on, fostered by somebody in the North and that he speaks perfect Italian. That serves me to locate Palermo in the map. I would be able to say, also, that the pasta orechiette, a sort of small patches resembling small ears, is original from Puglia, and that you have two varieties of Pecorino cheese, the Roman and the Sardo. The salty and more matured Roman variety is to be grated only.
If you prepare pasta with broccoli you should not add the salt until the broccoli is done; the same water is used to cook the pasta, and broccoli takes ages to boil in salty water and all water would be gone by then. I would not share here the secret to cook pasta al dente, not the simple but magic touch of mantecare, not the way to apply it to a chicken or prawn risotto: it is a culinary secret. I could also say that Robert De Niro speaks perfect Sicilian in The Godfather and that Al Pacino accent is crap. I could follow a conversation linking the recent earthquakes in Bologna with some drilling works in course and I would point out to the entertaining data of the Instituto Nazionale di Geofisica e Vulcanologia (INGV). Then, we could comment on the predictions of Giampaolo Giuliani and his method to track quakes faster and more efficient and his story: what is it true? What scam?
I can see a group of serious and dour faces playing the Allegro ma non troppo movement of a simphony by Dvorak, Beethoven or Weber and, on the other corner of the room, I can see V., an Italian woman, laughing happily, hardly believing that serious minds could have just invented such a term: it sounds like a funny joke. I can see the conductor giving instructions: hey, boys! Allegro.... Ma non troppo, ehhh? I could also pretend to be illustrated by mentioning that the school boys in Italy read over and over again The Divine Comedy and that in IT terminology, the computer who first spreads a virus is called untori, word that Alessandro Manzoni used to refer to the people falling into the claws of the plague in I promessi sposi (1822). I could tell you a fantastic story related to Riccardo Cocciante's Margherita and I could sing to you the first two verses of Non e buona by Adriano Celentano. And I could save to my ears the details of intonation, sounds and interjections, which makes everything so alive and sparky. And so on. When I come back to Rome, I will go to Il Necci for lunch or, perhaps, for supper and drinks at dusk, and I would remember the connection of this place with Pasolini, and everything would taste better, more real.
And this is enough for me... . The most valuable knowledge in the world, and the most valuable experience. Italy is becoming a blossoming romance. And many other fragmented pieces of knowledge (the wonderful Roman Stories of Moravia, the History of Indro Montanelli, the poignant criticism of Fallaci, the scene of Anna Magnani bellowing from a stall of fruits, the Italian cinema, its forbidden beauties and impossible monsters, the songs of Tozzi, the festival di Sanremo and Luigi Tenco's Mi sono innamorato di te, the AC Milan of Van Basten, Gullit and Maldini, and the stories of D.M., the priest, riding a Vespa and "smuggling" bottles of wine into the Seminar in the 70s), become tastier, burning and magnificent when connected with the little pieces of human experience which brought them to my knowledge: memories in a heart.
Baldaccini, Donadoni e un sconosciuto (per me)
(PLEASE, LEAVE YOUR COMMENT).
No comments:
Post a Comment