So i never slept, let alone sinned,

in a cast-iron family bed with pristine, crisp linen, embroidered and richly fringed bedspread, cloudlike pillows, and small pearl-encrusted crucifix above the headboard. I never trained my vacant stare on an oleograph of the Madonna, or faded pictures of a father/brother/uncle/son in a bersagliere helmet, with its black feathers, or chintz curtains on the window, or porcelain or majolica jug atop a dark wood chest of drawers filled with local lace, sheets, towels, pillowcases, and underclothes washed and ironed on the kitchen table by a young, strong, tanned, almost swarthy arm, as a shoulder strap slips off it and silver beads of sweat sparkle on the forehead. (Speaking of silver, it would in all likelihood be tucked away under a pile of sheets in one of those drawers.) All this, of course, is from a movie in which I was neither a star nor even an extra, from a movie which for all I know they are not going to shoot again, or, if they do, the props will look different. In my mind, it is called Nozze di Seppia, and it's got no plot to it, save a scene with me walking along the Fondamente Nuove with the greatest watercolour in the world on the left and a red-brick infinity on the right. I should be wearing a cloth cap, dark serge jacket, and a white shirt with an open collar, washed and ironed by the same strong, tanned hand. Approaching the Arsenale, I'd turn right, cross twelve bridges, and take via Garibaldi to the Giardini, where, on an iron chair in the Caffè Paradiso, would be sitting she who washed and ironed this shirt six years ago. She'd have before her a glass of chinotto and a panino, a frayed little volume of Propertius' Menobiblus or Pushkin's Captain's Daughter; she'd be wearing a knee-lenght taffeta dress bought once in Rome on the eve of our trip to Ischia. She would lift her eyes, the colour of mustard and honey, fix them on the figure in the heavy serge jacket, and say: "What a belly!" If anything is to save this picture from being a flop, it will be the winter light.

Joseph Brodsky, Watermark.

Na imagem vemos San Cristoforo, San Michele e Murano vistos do Fondamenta Nuove, por Francesco Guardi. Este post será colocado também aqui.


Blogger slow said...

li este texto umas três vezes... fiquei muito impressionada ... e tb pq não entendi tudo à primeira :). Depois estava a fazer umas revisões e li "il modo condizionale è il modo della 'possibilità condizionata' ". É muito bonito o modo como esse desejo/possibilidade condicionada é tão elaborado e tão "entrelaçado" neste texto que nos ofereces.

6:11 da tarde  

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