Veronica, I don’t have enough words to express the happiness that your Pelleossa gave me.
First of all, for the enchantment of the complex architecture. The stories one inside the other, as in reality, in which it is sufficient to change the subjective perspective to not know if we are the protagonists of our own book or supporting actors in those of others. Then, to lead us to reflect on that chaos that was the period between the landing of the Americans in Sicily and the referendum that changed the Monarchy into a Republic. And how happy I was that you did it through the eyes of a child, Paolino, and – among others – of his crazy and wise old friend, Filippu.
You need to have the candor of children and madmen to move towards change without prejudice. At a certain point while reading I wondered if it was necessary to be forgetful to avoid making mistakes. Since this present seems to tell us that we only learn mistakes from memory. While the old – the born old, I mean – are convinced that everything must change for nothing to change. As that illustrious writer born in the same land as you said.
I never doubted that the stone heads carved by Filippu spoke and saw. Otherwise, why would we attend exhibitions, museums full of sculptures and painted canvases, if not to listen to their stories and have our gaze changed? And how I liked this writing of yours made of sulphur, sea, salt and blood. Words that came out of the hands even before thoughts.
From the first lines you make a pact with the reader: in this story everyone is on stage. You entrust us with a precise role like your characters, with those nicknames sewn onto them – insults, you call them – like a costume. A language to learn, because your Sicilian is much more than a simple dialect. You appeal to our sleeping consciences so that we can rewrite the ending together. And for some readers – but you certainly know this – being called to such a great commitment is flattering. And it’s comforting not to always be
treated by superficial idiots.
Here and there I thought of Camilleri’s The Brewer of Preston, and not so much for the language as for the ethical urgency; to the pounding cadence of the puppets and the “cunti” of Mimmo Cuticchio; and to Carmelo Bene’s voice which jumps from octave to octave when he reads “and the prow goes down”, to make us rise and sink among the waves together with Dante’s Ulysses.
A place must be small, to be universal. We need to invent a spit of land and call it Macondo so that everyone can find a home there. You have to go on stage with stone heads to realize that we are clumsier and more inanimate than them.
I would never have left Santafarra.
Dear Veronica, how much splendid madness you have put together.
