Cuttlefish Bones

Cuttlefish Bones Cuttlefish Bones, His Epoch Making First Book, Completes The Trio Of Books With The Previously Published The Occasions And The Storm And Other Things That Won Eugenio Montale The Nobel Prize In Literature And Established Him As The Greatest Italian Poet Since Leopardi The Renowned Classicist, Translator, And Critic William Arrowsmith Translated All Three Volumes Virtually Incomparable Arrowsmith Has Quite Literally Distilled This Poetry S Essence In Order To Recompose It With All Of Its Colors, Scents, And Exquisitely Understated Potency Intact Rebecca West

Eugenio Montale was born on October 12, 1896 in Genoa, Italy He was the youngest son of Domenico Montale and Giuseppina Ricci Montale They were brought up in a business atmosphere, as their father was a trader in chemicals Ill health cut short his formal education and he was therefore a self taught man free from conditioning except that of his own will and person He spent his summers at the family villa in a village This small village was near the Ligurian Riviera, an area which has had a profound influence on his poetry and other works Originally Montale aspired to be an opera singer and trained under the famous baritone Ernesto Sivori Surprisingly he changed his profession and went on to become a poet who can be considered the greatest of the twentieth century s Italian poets and one who won the prestigious Nobel Prize in Literature in 1975 for his distinctive poetry which, with great artistic sensitivity, has interpreted human values under the sign of an outlook on life with no illusions.

❰Ebook❯ ➠ Cuttlefish Bones Author Eugenio Montale – Uc0.info
  • Paperback
  • 304 pages
  • Cuttlefish Bones
  • Eugenio Montale
  • English
  • 28 March 2018
  • 0393311716

10 thoughts on “Cuttlefish Bones

  1. says:

    Montale is, without question, on a par with Pablo Neruda This is simply one of the greatest books of poetry I ve read.

  2. says:

    Questo poeta, questo libro, mi hanno folgorato sin dalla fanciullezza Montale uno dei miracoli che ancora tengono in piedi lo scalcinato programma delle scuole superiori, una di quelle poche pagine in grando di far sedere un adolescente qualche minuto a canrasi nella testa questi versi.Ossi di Seppia riesce in poche righe a cantare il mondo rimasto vuoto dopo la morte di Dio, meglio di dieci libri di Nietzsche Ci che NON siamo, ci che NON vogliamo L anello che non tiene ED anche chi Questo poeta, questo libro, mi hanno folgorato sin dalla fanciullezza Montale uno dei miracoli che ancora tengono in piedi lo scalcinato programma delle scuole superiori, una di quelle poche pagine in grando di far sedere un adolescente qualche minuto a canrasi nella testa questi versi.Ossi di Seppia riesce in poche righe a cantare il mondo rimasto vuoto dopo la morte di Dio, meglio di dieci libri di Nietzsche Ci che NON siamo, ci che NON vogliamo L anello che non tiene ED anche chi non abituato a leggere poesie, Non chiederci la parola, Aria di vetro, Meriggiare pallido e assorto le dovrebbe tenere appese al muro.Un piccolo, rabbioso appunto Montale contemporaneo a D Annunzio di poco posteriore, in realt il fatto che si tolga spazio all ermetismo per insegnare nelle scuole l opera di questo borioso pezzo di merda, a partire da Il Piacere ovvero la versione bell epoque delle 50 sfumature di grigio lo reputo uno scandalo Che D Annunzio non sia stato ancora coperto di vergogna per quello che ha scritto e fatto, e successivamente consegnato all oblio, un segno del declino dei tempi

  3. says:

    Montale, almeno in questa prima raccolta di poesie, non rientra tra i miei poeti preferiti.Mi piacciono le poesie sullo stile del mal di vivere, ma non mi ritrovo molto nei suoi paesaggi e nei suoi ambienti, per quanto evocativi purtroppo mi dicono poco.

  4. says:

    The wind which this evening alertly plays recalls a loud clash of metal sheets the instruments of the thick trees and sweepsthe coppery horizonwhere streaks of light like kitesstretch high in the sky that thunders Journeying clouds, brightrealms of above Of sublime El Doradoshalf shut doors and the sea that scale after scale,hurls to the ground a hornof spiralled foams the wind that is born and diesin the hour that is slowly blackeningwould also play you tonightout of tune instrument,heart The wind which this evening alertly plays recalls a loud clash of metal sheets the instruments of the thick trees and sweepsthe coppery horizonwhere streaks of light like kitesstretch high in the sky that thunders Journeying clouds, brightrealms of above Of sublime El Doradoshalf shut doors and the sea that scale after scale,hurls to the ground a hornof spiralled foams the wind that is born and diesin the hour that is slowly blackeningwould also play you tonightout of tune instrument,heart English Horn, pg 21 Do not ask from us the word that surveys from every sideour shapeless soul, and in letters of fireproclaim it and make it shine like a crocuslost in the middle of a dusty meadow.Ah, the man who moves forth sure,a friend to others and to himself, and gives no thoughtto his shadow which the sunstamps upon a flaking wall Do not ask us for the formula which could open worlds for you,yes, some twisted syllable and dry like a branch.This alone nowadays can we tell you,what we are not, what we do not want The Bones of the Cuttlefish, pg 29 There emerges Tritonfrom the waves that lapthe threshold of a Christiantemple, and each approaching houris ancient Each doubtis led by the handlike a girl child friend.There no one looks ator listens to oneself.Here you are at the originsand making decisions is foolishness your path you will later traceto assume a face The Bones of the Cuttlefish Portovenere, pg 39 Like a vortex whirlsabove my bowed heada pungent sound of trees.The earth burns, crisscrossedby the twisted shadows of the firs,and at sea, out there, the gaze is veiled, than by branches, by the haze that here and there breaks outfrom the veining ground.Whenor less muffled the roll of flooding watersthat drown and swellneat to dry stretches reaches me or it is an intermittent thrashing and showeringof foams upon the rocks.As I raise my face, abruptly the braying,above my head, ceases and darting pasttowards the shrilling waters,blue white arrows, a pair of jays Mediterranean Sea, pg 55 Obliterate if you wish it sothis weak complaining life,as the sponge does the ephemeralscribble upon the blackboard.I am awaiting to re enter your circle,my slippery passing by is coming to an end.My venture bears witnessto an order that in the course of the voyage I forgot,these words of mine swear their faithin an impossible event, of which they are wholly ignorant.But always when I heardyour gentle surf upon the beachconsternation took hold of meas when a man of waning memoryrecovers reminiscences of his country.Having learned my lesson from the gaspingof some desolate midday hour of yoursthat is scarcely audiblethan from your moment of glory,I surrender to you now in humility I am no than a spark of an influoresence Well do I know it to burn,this, nothing else, is my significance Mediterranean Sea, pg 69 70

  5. says:

    Livro fundamental de um dos maiores poetas do s culo XX, aqui prejudicado por uma tradu o de Renato Xavier que se atrapalha com preciosismos e hermetiza desnecessariamente os versos Aos que se interessarem, sugiro que procurem a antologia Poesias , com tradu o de Geraldo Holanda Cavalcanti e lan ada pela Record em 1997.

  6. says:

    Review in Italian reality this was a rereading The book in question was bought by my person back in 2009 when I was in great need to write the final term paper yes, I m old, you already knew it though.I m not sure why I wanted to reread it, but as always when I got to Bring me the sunflower that I transplant it I had to stop I don t think I ve ever read and re read a poem so many times I know it by heart even though nobody has ever forced me to Review in Italian reality this was a rereading The book in question was bought by my person back in 2009 when I was in great need to write the final term paper yes, I m old, you already knew it though.I m not sure why I wanted to reread it, but as always when I got to Bring me the sunflower that I transplant it I had to stop I don t think I ve ever read and re read a poem so many times I know it by heart even though nobody has ever forced me to study it I really like it.I don t know if you know it, so I ll bring it back in full Bring me the sunflower that I transplant itin my salty burnt soil,and you show all day to the mirroring bluesthe anxiety of his yellow face from heaven.Dark things tend to clarity,the bodies are exhausted in a flowof tints these in music To fadeit is therefore the venture of ventures.Bring me the plant that leadswhere blonde transparencies ariseand vaporizes life as essence bring me the sunflower gone mad with light google translate here, so if it doesn t make any sense sorry It makes me die Sunflower is my favorite flower even just by my nickname, of course despite its lack of perfume The yellow color of its petals, the obvious reference to the sun, always make me always, always think of that beautiful period that goes from spring to summer when the scent in the air is different,sparkling and lighter.The whole collection is united by images of elements of everyday life and reading Montale s poems creates this feeling of immersion in reality with a bitter aftertaste It always seems to be on who goes there, with death lurking everything is beautiful but veiled in gray Only sunflowers, lemons, go crazy with light and give that extra touch happiness, joy of life always comes to mind that makes everything less flat.Recommended Yes Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful Montale is one of my favorite Italian poets

  7. says:

    E con questo ho definitivamente stabilito che leggere poesie non fa per me sebbene io ami alla follia questo genere di letteratura Niente, non riesco a godermele appieno Credo che prover a cambiare autore.Leggere poesie non fa per me, dicevo Ma pur sempre poesia, il che equivale a dire che il suo benedetto fascino lo eserciter ora e sempre e per sempre.Una delle mie preferite questa Felicit raggiunta, si camminaper te sul fil di lama.Agli occhi sei barlume che vacilla,al piede, teso E con questo ho definitivamente stabilito che leggere poesie non fa per me sebbene io ami alla follia questo genere di letteratura Niente, non riesco a godermele appieno Credo che prover a cambiare autore.Leggere poesie non fa per me, dicevo Ma pur sempre poesia, il che equivale a dire che il suo benedetto fascino lo eserciter ora e sempre e per sempre.Una delle mie preferite questa Felicit raggiunta, si camminaper te sul fil di lama.Agli occhi sei barlume che vacilla,al piede, teso ghiaccio che s incrina e dunque non ti tocchi chi pi t ama.Se giungi sulle anime invasedi tristezza e le schiari, il tuo mattinoe dolce e turbatore come i nidi delle cimase.Ma nulla paga il pianto del bambinoa cui fugge il pallone tra le case

  8. says:

    Non chiederci la parola Non chiederci la parola che squadri da ogni lato l animo nostro informe, e a lettere di fuoco lo dichiari e risplenda come un croco perduto in mezzo a un polveroso prato Ah l uomo che se ne va sicuro, agli altri ed a se stesso amico, e l ombra sua non cura che la canicola stampa sopra uno scalcinato muro Non domandarci la formula che mondi possa aprirti s qualche storta sillaba e secca come un ramo Codesto solo oggi possiamo dirti, ci che non siamo, ci che non Non chiederci la parola Non chiederci la parola che squadri da ogni lato l animo nostro informe, e a lettere di fuoco lo dichiari e risplenda come un croco perduto in mezzo a un polveroso prato Ah l uomo che se ne va sicuro, agli altri ed a se stesso amico, e l ombra sua non cura che la canicola stampa sopra uno scalcinato muro Non domandarci la formula che mondi possa aprirti s qualche storta sillaba e secca come un ramo Codesto solo oggi possiamo dirti, ci che non siamo, ci che non vogliamo.

  9. says:

    A deeply moving record of one man s world, his life on the Ligurian coast and how the world around him changes only under the influence of man A beautiful synthesis of a naturalist and a romantic, but also severely pessimistic and fearful of the modern world and its severe flaws, Montale is a poet with roots that reach as far back as poetry itself, but is firmly planted in the modern world and its problems One of the great books of poetry written in the 20th century.

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