In honor of David Bowie's death on January 10, I'm loading this Italian version of Space oddity, called Ragazzo solo, ragazza sola (Lonely boy, lonely girl).
The lyrics are by none other than Mogol, one of the most successful modern Italian songwriters. The version came out shortly after the original but has a completely different theme (love). David has a marked accent, like most people who speak a foreign language, but he makes an effort to pronounce his r's correctly.
Even more amusingly, David recorded a version of the classic Volare in 1986.
A few days ago I was watching videos of Italian songs on YouTube; specifically, I was listening to the sublime Scalinatella in the rendition by the great Roberto Murolo. As many of you know, YouTube will then provide you with various related items. This is how I came upon a certain Mike Patton singing the same Neapolitan song. I though to myself- is this a mistake, a joke, atrocious karaoke? None of the above. It was a very good interpretation, right down to the pronunciation of the dialect. Mind you, even Italians who are not Neapolitans fall short when they sing classics from Naples.
Turns out that Mike is a Californian, but he lived in Bologna for a while and was married to an Italian woman. He recorded an Italian-only record called Mondo Cane. In this record there are the old hits from the 50's and 60's, so this is a good way for you to take a survey course of sorts of Italian popular music at its best. To give you an idea of the versatility of this man, here is another song, which is as delightful and silly as Scalinatella is mournful. It's about sun and fun and a couple that steals kisses while snorkeling. The original Con le pinne, fucile ed occhiali is by Edoardo Vianello.
I recently finished reading Norman Lewis's Naples '44, which I disliked.As often happens, I then went more in depth about the topic (Naples during the Allied occupation in WWII). And I came upon this little song.
Now I was already vaguely familiar with the tune, but had never really parsed out its meaning. To my great surprise, it turned out to be the song sung in a famous scene of The Bicycle Thief, where father and son enjoy a momentary respite from their hellish situation in post-War Italy.
I had always been vaguely intrigued by the unidentified song, and wondered why adorable Bruno laughed at it. It turns out that the politically incorrect song is about the number of Neapolitan women during the occupation who gave birth to black (or actually biracial children). The amusing refrain states that the mom, despite the baby's different appearance, goes ahead and calls him Ciro, or Antonio, or Peppe, or Ciccio. Typical Neapolitan names. Everyone pretends that they can't imagine what happened, despite the large number of black or brown soldiers openly fraternizing with the local ladies.
It's not so easy to find translations into Italian, much less English, of the song. Perhaps the Neapolitans have kept it to themselves, as it indirectly brings up the painful chapter of the widespread prostitution between soldiers and inhabitants at that time. But an Italian translation can be found here.
And here is an excellent rendition of the song in its entirety. Note that tammurriata refers to a type of song accompanied by a tambourine. So this would be the black tambourine song.
Italians do not have the rich Christmas carol tradition of English-speaking folks, but Tu scendi dalle stelle is known throughout Italy and justly popular. The 18th century song was historically performed with the zampogna, the Italian bagpipes. Here are some versions.
Yesterday singer Jimmy Fontana died at age 78. He had some big hits in Italy in the 60's, the best of which was Il mondo, written in part by Fontana, with the arrangement of the ubiquitous Ennio Morricone.
No, stanotte amore non ho più pensato a te, ho aperto gli occhi per guardare intorno a me e intorno a me girava il mondo come sempre.
Gira, il mondo gira nello spazio senza fine con gli amori appena nati, con gli amori già finiti con la gioia e col dolore della gente come me.
Oh mondo, soltanto adesso, io ti guardo nel tuo silenzio io mi perdo e sono niente accanto a te. Il mondo, non si é fermato mai un momento, la notte insegue sempre il giorno, ed il giorno verrà.
Here is my translation.
No, tonight, my love, I haven't thought of you anymore, I opened my eyes to look around me, and around me the world was turning, as always. Turning, the world is turning in endless space, with love that has just been born, with love that has already died, with the joy and the pain of people like me. Oh world, I'm only seeing you now, I'm losing myself in your silence and I am nothing next to you. The world, it has never stopped one moment, night always chases day, and daylight will come ...
Here's another great summer song, from thirty years ago. I was living in Italy and it was extremely popular.
Part of the reason the catchy tune caught on was that the lyrics were in Spanish, so the Italians couldn't quite understand them. Even though the singers/songwriters were Italian.
Let's go to the beach... the bomb has gone off... the radioactive wind... messes up our hair...
Our word of the week is il peperone, or pepper (the veggie). It does not mean pepperoni, which is salame or salamino piccante. In Italy, pepperoni pizza is usually called pizza alla diavola, but is not as popular there as it is here in the States.
Above is a fun song from the 60's by Edoardo Vianello, called Il peperone, in which there is a poetic conceit (remember those from high school?) in which he compares his lady love at the beach to a red pepper: since you've been tanning in the hot sun, you're red, you're peeling, you're like a pepper.
Da quando tu prendi tu prendi il solleonesei rossa spellata sei come un peperone
Bagnata dall'acqua dall'acqua di sale,baciata dal vento che viene dal mare,accanto alla riva pian piano ti lasci bruciare dal solcon tutte le creme massaggi la pellema giorno per giorno ti riempi di bollele gambe, le braccia, il naso e le spalle ti lasci bruciar.
Da quando tu prendi tu prendi il solleonesei rossa spellata sei come un peperone.Da quando tu prendi tu prendi il solleonesei rossa spellata sei come un peperone.
Ormai pure all'ombra continui a scottarti,nemmeno la luna riesce a calmarti,appena ti stringo tu urli, tu piangi mio pallido aamor.avevi le labbra cosi` vellutate e oggi le hai rossecosi` screpolate che sembra ch'io bacil'ortica di un campo ingiallito dal soooool.
Da quando tu prendi tu prendi il solleonesei rossa spellata sei come un peperone.da quando tu prendi tu prendi il solleonesei rossa spellata sei come un peperone.
This post is dedicated to little Raven, a cool black cat and feline friend who passed away on Monday. By the bye, people who are superstitious about black cats or mistreat them should be ashamed of themselves.
Here is a famous Italian children's song about a little girl (who is singing the song) who wanted a black cat but got a white one instead. In the lyrics, she says that she had made a deal with a little friend. She would give him some improbable animal and he would give her a black cat. When he gave her the white cat, she pulled out of the deal. However, in the end, she kept the white cat and the other kid got nothing (among other things, she had promised him an Indian elephant with a canopy she just happened to have in her back yard). She also calls him a liar and says she'll never play with him again. Starting early to be furba (sly, cunning). She is also indignant at his behavior, as you can see from the original tape of the Zecchino D'Oro (children's singing contest).
Lucio Dalla, one of the most famous and important Italian singers and songwriters of the last several decades, has died today of a heart attack, just short of his 69th birthday.
Here is his most famous song, Caruso, a tribute to an even more important and famous Italian singer. This version is with Pavarotti, who came from the same Northern Italian region as Dalla, Emilia (of which Bologna is the capital). Lyrics, my translation and some notes follow.
Qui dove il mare luccica e tira forte il vento su una vecchia terrazza vicina al golfo di Surriento un uomo abbraccia una ragazza dopo che aveva pianto poi si schiarisce la voce e ricomincia il canto:
Te voglio bene assai ma tanto tanto bene sai è una catena ormai che scioglie il sangue dint'e vene sai...
Vide le luci in mezzo al mare pensò alle notti là in America ma erano solo le lampare e la bianca scia d'un'elica sentì il dolore nella musica si alzò dal pianoforte ma quando vide la luna uscire da una nuvola gli sembrò più dolce anche la morte. Guardò negli occhi la ragazza quegli occhi verdi come il mare poi all'improvviso uscì una lacrima e lui credette d'affogare.
Te voglio bene assai ma tanto tanto bene sai è una catena ormai che scioglie il sangue dint'e vene sai...
La potenza della lirica dove ogni dramma è un falso che con un po' di trucco e con la mimica puoi diventare un altro Ma due occhi che ti guardano così vicini e veri ti fanno scordare le parole confondono i pensieri.
Così diventò tutto piccolo anche le notti là in America ti volti e vedi la tua vita come la scia d'un'elica.
Ah si, è la vita che finisce ma lui non ci pensò poi tanto anzi si sentiva già felice e ricominciò il suo canto:
Te voglio bene assai ma tanto tanto bene sai è una catena ormai che scioglie il sangue dint'e vene sai... Te voglio bene assai ma tanto tanto bene sai è una catena ormai che scioglie il sangue dint'e vene sai...
Here where the sea glimmers
and the wind is strong
on an old terrace overlooking the gulf of Surriento
a man embraces a girl
after crying
then clears his voice and continues to sing:
I love you very much,
so very very much, you know,
it has become a chain
that melts the blood in my veins, you know.
He saw the lights in the midst of the sea
he thought of the nights there in America
but they were only the fishing boats
and the white wake of a propeller
he felt the sorrow in the music
he rose from the piano
but when he saw the moon come out from behind a cloud
even death seemed sweeter to him.
He looked into the girl's eyes
those eyes green like the sea
suddenly a tear appeared
and he thought he was drowning.
I love you very much ...
The power of opera
where every drama is a fraud
where with a bit of make-up and mimicry
you can become someone else
But two eyes that are watching you
so close and so real
make you forget the words
and confuse your thoughts.
So everything became small
even the nights there in America
you turn around and see your life
as the wake of a propeller.
Ah yes, it's life that is ending
but he didn't think of that so much after all
but felt happy already
and continued to sing:
I love you very much you know...
***
Now, what the hell is going on here? OK. There are parts in Italian and parts in Neapolitan dialect (Caruso was from Naples). The parts in Neapolitan are the word "Surriento" (instead of "Sorrento") and the refrain beginning "Te voglio bene...." The parts in Italian are a narration of Caruso's last days in Naples, the parts in Neapolitan are Caruso singing a version of Dicitencello vuie, a fabulous classic of the Neapolitan repertoire. Here are the original words:
A' voglio bbene, A' voglio bbene assaie, Dicitencello, vuie Ca nun m' 'a scordo maie! E''na passiona Cchiù forte 'e 'na catena, Ca me turmente ll'anema E nun me fa campá
Touchingly, Caruso mixes up the words, as Dalla himself says, because he is very sick and about to die. Just as he confuses his glorious past in America with his present in Naples. There is some ambiguity about the identity of the girl with green eyes. His daughter by American Dorothy Caruso? Or a young woman he met there who he was giving voice lessons to? Is the singing just a lesson or is it directed to her?
Ambiguity is part of this fine song, as when you cannot tell if the person crying is Caruso, the girl, or both. Knowing the tenor's personality and singing style (the "Caruso sob"), it may well be the famous singer.
An outstanding tribute by Lucio and Luciano to Enrico.
OK, so for its 100th issue celebration, the Italian version of Rolling Stone decided to publish a list of the 100 top Italian pop/rock records (albums, not songs). I must admit that I was living in the most shameful ignorance of the existence of Italian Rolling Stone. I haven't paid that much attention to the American version, either, for ages.
Nobody really believes in these classifications but everyone loves to take a peek, maybe just to express their righteous indignation at the outrageous unfairness and lack of taste. Well the number one choice here is a 1983 album by ever-popular Vasco Rossi, featuring the highly popular song above, called Bollicine (tiny bubbles). The song is ostensibly in praise of Coca-Cola, but everyone has always known that it was about the other coke. In other words, a song about the joys of taking drugs, and in fact Vasco sounds like a stoner while he's singing it. Catchy, but no masterpiece. I would have put Lucio Battisti first (up from third place).
No, I don't think this is the best Italian album, and most Italians won't either. For the complete list, see the original article here. A good way to familiarize yourself with Italian popular music if you don't know where to start.
Renzo Piano is a world-famous and hyper-successful architect from Genoa. He is perhaps best known (along with Richard Rogers) for the Beaubourg building in Paris. When I was there in 1990, I asked a Frenchman where it was. With a twinkle in his eye, he pointed and answered: "C'est cette grande usine la'." It's that big factory there. 'nuff said.
Fast forward three and a half decades from the construction of the factory in Paris in 1977.
Renzo Piano completes the addition to Boston's distinguished Isabella Stewart Gardner museum, to the tune of 118 million smackeroonies. This project was approved under director Anne Hawley, under whose watch (so to speak) a Vermeer, a Rembrandt and other irreplaceable stuff disappeared from the Gardner. If you only realized how much I love Dutch art and Vermeer in particular, you would understand that I already resent this Hawley person. It wasn't the best Vermeer, but still.
So they approved Renzo's project, which will basically house functions and objects not originally part of Isabella's home museum. It is indeed a home museum, like Milan's Poldi Pezzoli (which partly inspired Gardner). What we have now in the new wing is a glass box that could be anywhere (just like a mall or a chain store). In the process, they tore down Gardner's original carriage house and greenhouse.
The Italian daily La Repubblica rather triumphantly reported this in a fatuous article/interview called "I'm bringing Italy to Boston." Give me a break. The Italian presence has already been strong in Boston for a century, and American Isabella Stewart Gardner did infinitely more to enhance this presence than Renzo Piano ever could.
The glass box opens to the public on January 19th.
(In the photo- a new university library in the Midwest? A neuroscience research center in Holland? An office building in Abu Dhabi? No, it's Italy in Boston.)
Let me start off by saying that I am no expert in classical music, but when something strikes my fancy, I have a proper appreciation for it. The oboe concerto in D minor by Alessandro Marcello is such a case. Let us take a look, or rather a hear, at this sublime work by a musical dilettante from Venice.
Not being knowledgeable about classical music, I first discovered this in a film from 1970, called Anonimo veneziano. The excellent screenplay was in turn based on a novel by the interesting author Giuseppe Berto.
In the movie, American actor Tony Musante plays a dying musician in Venice who is momentarily reunited with his estranged wife, played by the lovely Brazilian actress Florinda Bolkan. The final scene has said musician recording the concerto in what seems to be a deconsecrated church. It is the last time they will ever see each other.
The name of the movie is Anonimo veneziano, due to the fact that works of art that are difficult to attribute are often given a generic name such as this. Of course the name also applies poignantly to the musician in the movie who has not lived up to to his potential. Which is a condition true of most of us.
Alessandro Marcello was indeed a gifted amateur and polymath, a Venetian aristocrat whose brother Benedetto was also a composer. His talent was confirmed by the transcription of the concerto for harpsichord by Johann Sebastian Bach.
Both the concerto and the film are highly recommended, but the film will be hard to come by.
Don't know Mina? You're in for a treat. Reportedly, Louis Armstrong said she was the greatest white female singer, and I don't want to argue with Louis, where music is concerned. And she was certainly easy on the eyes. Mina is surely the most popular woman singer in Italy of the last half century, and she continues to be active. The music is by none other than the renowned Ennio Morricone.
For those of you who are studying Italian, this will also be a work-out. You have the gerund (or -ing form) and hypothetical ("if" sentences) of the second type.
To celebrate the untimely (in the sense that it was long overdue) departure of Qaddafi, here is a 1986 song from Gianna Nannini, apparently inspired by none other than the late colonel.
It's been a long time since Qaddafi was bello (handsome) and as of yesterday, he will no longer be impossible, either.
The irrepressible Gianna, who is a lesbian, recently gave birth to her first child, Penelope, at the tender age of 54. She is part of the Nannini family of Siena, famous for their wonderful pastries. Gianna started working as a teen in dad's business, but lost two fingers while operating a machine. This certainly put her off from continuing in the family line, and she made an abrupt career change.
Here is a whimsical 1960 tune from legendary singer-songwriter Gino Paoli (lyrics written by Mogol, who would later work with Lucio Battisti). It apparently alludes to Paoli's starving-artist-in-garret period, populated by a music-loving (female) cat and a visiting star (of the astronomical sort). Lyrics and translation follow. Students of Italian will note the use of the imperfect for habitual situations in the past that no longer exist.
C'era una volta una gatta che aveva una macchia nera sul muso e una vecchia soffitta vicino al mare con una finestra a un passo dal cielo blu. Se la chitarra suonavo la gatta faceva le fusa ed una stellina scendeva vicina vicina poi mi sorrideva e se ne tornava su.
Ora non abito più là tutto è cambiato, non abito più là ho una casa bellissima bellissima come vuoi tu. Ma io ripenso a una gatta che aveva una macchia nera sul muso a una vecchia soffitta vicino al mare con una stellina che ora non vedo più.
Once upon a time there was a cat
with a black spot on her muzzle and an old
attic by the sea with a window
steps away from the blue sky. If I would play my guitar
the cat would purr and a little star
would come down really close
then it would smile and go back up again.
Now I don't live there anymore everything has changed,
I don't live there anymore, I have a beautiful house,
beautiful, as you want.
But I think back to a cat with a black spot on her muzzle, to an old
One of the most famous and glorious Neapolitan songs was actually written in America. Core 'ngrato (Ungrateful heart), also known as Catari' (after the name of the cruel lady) was written in the States one hundred years ago by Italian immigrants Salvatore Cardillo (music) and Riccardo Cordiferro (pseudonym of Alessandro Sisca, lyrics).
First we'll look at the lyrics in the original Neapolitan, then I'll translate into standard Italian and then English. Finally, we'll examine a mini-mystery about Caruso's version of the words, which differs from others'.
Catarí', Catarí'...
pecché mm''e ddice sti pparole amare?!
Pecché mme parle e 'o core mme turmiente Catarí'?!
Nun te scurdá ca t'aggio dato 'o core, Catarí'...
Nun te scurdá...
Catarí'...
Catarí', che vène a dicere
stu pparlá ca mme dá spáseme?
Tu nun ce pienze a stu dulore mio?!
Tu nun ce pienze, tu nun te ne cure...
Core, core 'ngrato...
T'hê pigliato 'a vita mia!
Tutto è passato...
e nun ce pienze cchiù.
Catarí', Catarí'...
tu nun 'o ssaje ca fino e 'int'a na chiesa
io só' trasuto e aggiu pregato a Dio, Catarí'...
E ll'aggio ditto pure a 'o cunfessore: "Io stó' a murí
pe' chella llá...
Stó' a suffrí,
stó' a suffrí nun se pò credere...
stó' a suffrí tutte li strazie..."
E 'o cunfessore, ch'è perzona santa,
mm'ha ditto: "Figliu mio lássala stá, lássala stá!..."
Core, core 'ngrato...
T'hê pigliato 'a vita mia!
Tutto è passato...
e nun ce pienze cchiù.
Caterina, Caterina...
Perche' mi dici queste parole amare?
Perche' mi parli e il cuore mi tormenti, Caterina?
Non ti scordar che ti ho dato il cuore Caterina
Non ti scordar.
Caterina
Caterina che vieni a dirmi
Questo parlare che mi da' spasimi?
Tu non ci pensi a questo dolore mio?
Tu non ci pensi, non te ne curi.
Cuore, cuore ingrato
Ti sei presa la vita mia
Tutto e' passato...
E non ci pensi piu'.
Caterina, Caterina
Tu non lo sai che sono andato persino in chiesa
Sono entrato e ho pregato a Dio, Caterina
E l'ho detto pure al confessore, Caterina: "Sto per morire
Why are you speaking to me and tormenting my heart, Cathy?
Don't forget that I gave you my heart
Don't forget.
Cathy
Cathy what are you saying?
This talk is torture to me.
Don't you think of my pain?
You don't think about it
You don't care.
Heart, ungrateful heart
You've taken my life
Everything has passed
And you no longer think of it.
Cathy, Cathy,
You don't know that I even went to church
I entered and prayed to God, Cathy
And I even told the priest, Cathy: "I'm about to die
for her,
I'm suffering
Suffering that is not to be believed
I'm suffering every kind of hell
And the priest, who is a holy man said: "Son, leave her alone, leave her alone."
Heart, ungrateful heart
You've taken my life
Everything has passed
And you no longer think of it.
Above you have two versions of this sublime song. The first is by the famed tenor Enrico Caruso, the second by the late great Neapolitan singer Roberto Murolo.
Caruso's version, which is perhaps the original, changes the second part when he is in church and doesn't mention the priest (but he does mention praying to God). No other version I have heard, including Murolo's, is like this. Further, I can't quite make out what Caruso is saying instead of the part about the priest. After some digging, I found that the lyricist Sisca was a radical socialist and deeply anti-clerical, so it is possible that this was his original version. I personally think that the version with the priest is superior- regardless of what one may think of the Catholic Church and its clergy.
Oddly, Cardillo, who wrote the music, was surprised by its enormous success and called it a porcheria (junk). How little he knew. It is now in the standard repertoire of every self-respecting tenor. None of whom, to my knowledge, sing Caruso's version.
The Seventies. Four attractive young men from Northern Italy. Unforgettable love song, massive hit. Lyrics and my translation follow. Those of you who are studying Italian will notice the conditionals and the hypotheticals.
E io dovrei comprendere se tu da un po' non mi vuoi non avrei mai capito te ma da capire cosa c'è. Dovrei tornare a casa e poi se il fiato ce la fa parlarti del mio mondo fuori dei miei pensieri poi scoprire che vuoi dormire che non mi senti più. E io dovrei ma spiegami contro di me che cos'hai come se io non fossi io mi dici che te ne vai. Son quello che respira piano per non svegliare te che nel silenzio fu felice di aspettare che il tuo gioco diventasse amore che una donna diventassi tu. Noi due nel mondo e nell'anima la veritá siamo noi basta cosi' e guardami chi sono io tu lo sai. Noi due nel mondo e nell'anima e io dovrei comprendere la verità siamo noi... Noi due nel mondo e nell'anima e io dovrei comprendere la veritá siamo noi... Noi due nel mondo e nell'anima la veritá siamo noi...
Believe it or not, I've never seen the Last Supper (Italian: Il Cenacolo or L'Ultima Cena), despite having lived so long in Northern Italy and despite the fact that my mother was from Milan. The difficulty of access and the well-known fact of its deterioration and subsequent restorations kept me away. This does not mean I'll never see it or that I do not have the highest consideration for Leonardo.
Today's New York Times features some personal considerations along the same lines. Is it worth it? The end of the little article where the author drifts off to see another fresco and glances at his watch, despite the fifteen-minute limit, would cast doubts in this regard.
The irrepressible Mark Twain expressed similar feelings in his post-Civil War travel book, Innocents Abroad (which I can highly recommend and which is available online for free.) Here he is:
Here in Milan, in an ancient tumble-down ruin of a church, is the mournful wreck of the most celebrated painting in the world--"The Last Supper," by Leonardo da Vinci. We are not infallible judges of pictures, but of course we went there to see this wonderful painting, once so beautiful, always so worshipped by masters in art, and forever to be famous in song and story. And the first thing that occurred was the infliction on us of a placard fairly reeking with wretched English. Take a morsel of it: "Bartholomew (that is the first figure on the left hand side at the spectator,) uncertain and doubtful about what he thinks to have heard, and upon which he wants to be assured by himself at Christ and by no others."
Good, isn't it? And then Peter is described as "argumenting in a threatening and angrily condition at Judas Iscariot."
This paragraph recalls the picture. "The Last Supper" is painted on the dilapidated wall of what was a little chapel attached to the main church in ancient times, I suppose. It is battered and scarred in every direction, and stained and discolored by time, and Napoleon's horses kicked the legs off most the disciples when they (the horses, not the disciples,) were stabled there more than half a century ago.
I recognized the old picture in a moment--the Saviour with bowed head seated at the centre of a long, rough table with scattering fruits and dishes upon it, and six disciples on either side in their long robes, talking to each other--the picture from which all engravings and all copies have been made for three centuries. Perhaps no living man has ever known an attempt to paint the Lord's Supper differently. The world seems to have become settled in the belief, long ago, that it is not possible for human genius to outdo this creation of da Vinci's. I suppose painters will go on copying it as long as any of the original is left visible to the eye. There were a dozen easels in the room, and as many artists transferring the great picture to their canvases. Fifty proofs of steel engravings and lithographs were scattered around, too. And as usual, I could not help noticing how superior the copies were to the original, that is, to my inexperienced eye. Wherever you find a Raphael, a Rubens, a Michelangelo, a Carracci, or a da Vinci (and we see them every day,) you find artists copying them, and the copies are always the handsomest. Maybe the originals were handsome when they were new, but they are not now.
This picture is about thirty feet long, and ten or twelve high, I should think, and the figures are at least life size. It is one of the largest paintings in Europe.
The colors are dimmed with age; the countenances are scaled and marred, and nearly all expression is gone from them; the hair is a dead blur upon the wall, and there is no life in the eyes. Only the attitudes are certain.
People come here from all parts of the world, and glorify this masterpiece. They stand entranced before it with bated breath and parted lips, and when they speak, it is only in the catchy ejaculations of rapture:
"Oh, wonderful!"
"Such expression!"
"Such grace of attitude!"
"Such dignity!"
"Such faultless drawing!"
"Such matchless coloring!"
"Such feeling!"
"What delicacy of touch!"
"What sublimity of conception!"
"A vision! A vision!"
I only envy these people; I envy them their honest admiration, if it be honest--their delight, if they feel delight. I harbor no animosity toward any of them. But at the same time the thought will intrude itself upon me, How can they see what is not visible? What would you think of a man who looked at some decayed, blind, toothless, pock-marked Cleopatra, and said: "What matchless beauty! What soul! What expression!" What would you think of a man who gazed upon a dingy, foggy sunset, and said: "What sublimity! What feeling! What richness of coloring!" What would you think of a man who stared in ecstasy upon a desert of stumps and said: "Oh, my soul, my beating heart, what a noble forest is here!"
You would think that those men had an astonishing talent for seeing things that had already passed away. It was what I thought when I stood before "The Last Supper" and heard men apostrophizing wonders, and beauties and perfections which had faded out of the picture and gone, a hundred years before they were born. We can imagine the beauty that was once in an aged face; we can imagine the forest if we see the stumps; but we can not absolutely see these things when they are not there. I am willing to believe that the eye of the practiced artist can rest upon the Last Supper and renew a lustre where only a hint of it is left, supply a tint that has faded away, restore an expression that is gone; patch, and color, and add, to the dull canvas until at last its figures shall stand before him aglow with the life, the feeling, the freshness, yea, with all the noble beauty that was theirs when first they came from the hand of the master. But I can not work this miracle. Can those other uninspired visitors do it, or do they only happily imagine they do?
After reading so much about it, I am satisfied that the Last Supper was a very miracle of art once. But it was three hundred years ago.
Here is a well-known and very powerful song from the Sixties by Italian singer Gianni Morandi. The song is a protest song against the Vietnam War. Is it anti-American? No, I don't think so. The lyrics show a sensitive take on the story of a young American known to the singer who was then drafted and died in Vietnam; the emphasis is certainly on what young people at the time (including me) had in common- a love of the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. The song was later covered by Joan Baez.
Here are the words in the original Italian:
C'era un ragazzo che come me amava i Beatles e i Rolling Stones girava il mondo, veniva da gli Stati Uniti d'America. Non era bello ma accanto a sé aveva mille donne se cantava «Help» e «Ticket to ride» o «Lady Jane» o «Yesterday». Cantava «Viva la libertà» ma ricevette una lettera, la sua chitarra mi regalò fu richiamato in America. Stop! coi Rolling Stones! Stop! coi Beatles. Stop! Gli han detto vai nel Vietnam e spara ai Vietcong... Ta ta ta ta ta... C'era un ragazzo che come me amava i Beatles e i Rolling Stones girava il mondo, ma poi finì a far la guerra nel Vietnam. Capelli lunghi non porta più, non suona la chitarra ma uno strumento che sempre dà la stessa nota ratatata. Non ha più amici, non ha più fans, vede la gente cadere giù: nel suo paese non tornerà adesso è morto nel Vietnam. Stop! coi Rolling Stones! Stop! coi Beatles. Stop! Nel petto un cuore più non ha ma due medaglie o tre... Ta ta ta ta ta...
