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Vincenzo Cardarelli (pseudonym of Nazareno Caldarelli, 1887-1959)
journalist, poet, and literary critic, led a solitary, dignified
existence, from a humble background, through self-taught education
and innumerable peregrinations, until his final days in poverty and
loneliness. He stood and sought for all that a true artist and
intellectual has to stand and seek for: the uncompromising
authenticity of art. Until now, with the sole exception of a few
poems translated by the great Irish poet Desmond O'Grady in the
late 1950's, the work of Vincenzo Cardarelli had remained precluded
to the English speaking world and the international audience at
large. The publication of this extensive collection will finally
disclose the doors to one of the most prominent, yet still
relatively unexplored, Italian and European poet of the twentieth
century.
Vincenzo Cardarelli (pseudonym of Nazareno Caldarelli, 1887-1959)
journalist, poet, and literary critic, led a solitary, dignified
existence, from a humble background, through self-taught education
and innumerable peregrinations, until his final days in poverty and
loneliness. He stood and sought for all that a true artist and
intellectual has to stand and seek for: the uncompromising
authenticity of art. Until now, with the sole exception of a few
poems translated by the great Irish poet Desmond O'Grady in the
late 1950's, the work of Vincenzo Cardarelli had remained precluded
to the English speaking world and the international audience at
large. The publication of this extensive collection will finally
disclose the doors to one of the most prominent, yet still
relatively unexplored, Italian and European poet of the twentieth
century.
Like a pilgrim, or a spiritual vagrant, crisscrossing the
country-always rolling on the very fabric of the continent:
westwards and eastwards, to the eternal oceans, and from the
northern vast plains down through the Appalachian, to the deep
recesses of the lowlands, to the swamps-infallibly enough I would
always return to my dwelling in Princeton. Many a time the lonely
night was devoted to the contemplation of the moon of New Jersey,
as I licked the wounds of a sore soul. I always wondered, how
different that pale, ghostly circle of a moon was, from the one I
encountered elsewhere above the magnificent land that I had been
scampering about, and from the lost moon of my childhood. Yet, with
adulthood-or maturity-seeing at last the rise and fall of earthling
matters, I would flinch, my heart recoiling, as from something
unpleasant. Thus, through the jaundiced, estranged buoy in the sky,
I would recall past memories, and hold out my quivering hand to
reach over to the always-receding mysteries of existence.
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Catan
(16)
R1,150
R887
Discovery Miles 8 870
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