Hermit in Paris: Autobiographical Writings - Couverture souple

Calvino, Italo

Couverture souple

ISBN 10 : 037571426X ISBN 13 : 9780375714269

Editeur : Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 2004

Synopsis

From one of modern literature's most captivating and elusive masters comes a posthumous volume of thoughtful, elegant, and quick-witted autobiographical writings, all previously unpublished in English. Here is Italo Calvino paying homage to his literary influences and tracing the evolution of his signature style. Here are his reminiscences of Italy's antifascist resistance and the frenzy of politics and ideas of the postwar era. The longest and most delightfully revealing section of the book is Calvino's diary of his travels in the United States in 1959 and 1960, which show him marveling at color TV, wrinkling his nose at the Beats, and reeling at the outpouring of racial hatred attending a civil rights demonstration in Alabama. Overflowing with insight and amusement, Hermit in Paris is an invaluable addition to the Calvino legacy.

A propos du livre

Extrait :

Stranger in Turin

I do not think that those of us who--in the field of literature--are Turinese by adoption are very numerous. I know plenty who are Milanese by adoption--no wonder: almost all the writers in Milan are not native; the number of adopted Roman authors continues to grow; Florentines by adoption there still are, though less than before; but as for Turin, one feels that one has to be born there, or to have come down there from the valleys of Piedmont following the natural movement of the rivers that flow into the Po. In my case, however, Turin was actually the result of a deliberate choice. I come from a region, Liguria, which has only fragments or hints of a literary tradition, so that everyone can--luckily!--discover or invent his own tradition. Liguria is a region which has no clearly defined cultural capital, so the Ligurian writer--a rare bird, to tell the truth--is also a migrating bird.

Turin possessed certain qualities that attracted me that were not unlike those of my own region, and were ones I preferred: absence of romantic froth, reliance above all on one's own work, an innate diffidence and reserve; and in addition the sure sense that one was part of the big world of action, not the closed provincial world, a pleasure in living that was tempered with irony, and a rational, clarifying intelligence. So it was Turin's moral, civic image, not its literary dimension, that attracted me. It was the lure of the Turin of thirty years earlier, which had been perceived and evoked by another adoptive Turinese, the Sardinian Antonio Gramsci, and which had been defined in certain passages that are still so stimulating today, written by a Turin intellectual--this time of genuine extraction--Piero Gobetti. This was the Turin of the revolutionary workers who in the aftermath of the First World War had organized themselves into the city's ruling class, the Turin of the anti-Fascist intellectuals who had refused to compromise. Is this Turin still alive today? Does it make its presence felt in today's Italy? I believe that it possesses the virtue of retaining its strength like a fire beneath the ashes, and that it continues to survive even when it least seems so. The Turin that was for me a world of literature was identified with one single person, to whom I had been lucky enough to be close for a number of years but whom all too soon I lost: a man about whom much is written these days, and often in a way that makes it difficult to recognize him. The fact is that his own writings are not capable of giving us a full picture of him: for it was his example of productivity that was fundamental, witnessing how the culture of the man of letters and the sensitivity of the poet were transformed into productive work, into values that were put at the service of his neighbours, into the organization and commerce of ideas, into practice and into a school of all the techniques of which a modern cultural civilization consists.

I am talking of Cesare Pavese. And I can add that for me, as for others who knew and saw him regularly, what Turin taught us amounted to what Pavese taught us. My life in Turin is deeply marked by his example; he was the first to read every page I wrote; if I have a profession it is because he was the one who taught me it, introducing me to that world of publishing for which Turin is today still a cultural centre of more than just national importance; lastly, it was he who taught me to see his city, to appreciate its subtle beauty walking along its streets and in its hills.

Here I really ought to change topic and say how a stranger like myself manages to fit in with this landscape, how I have settled in, I who am more a rockfish or woodland bird who has been transplanted here among these colonnades, to sniff the mists and the sub-Alpine chills. But that would be a long story. I would need to attempt a definition of the secret interplay of motifs which links the spare geometry of these grid-plan streets with the spare geometry of the dry-stone walls of my own countryside. And explain too the particular relationship between civilization and the world of nature in Turin: which is such that all it takes is the re-emergence of green leaves along the boulevards, the glimmer of the river Po, the warm proximity of the hills, and suddenly one's heart is open again to landscapes that had never really been forgotten, and you rethink your position within the vast world of nature, in short you taste the flavour of being alive.

['L'Approdo', Rivista trimestrale di lettere ed arti, II.1 (January-March, 1953).]
The Writer and the City

If one admits that a writer's work can be influenced by the environment in which it is produced, by the elements of the surrounding scenery, then one has to admit that Turin is the ideal city in which to be a writer. I do not understand how one could manage to write in one of those cities where images of the present are so overwhelming and powerful that they leave the writer no margin of space or silence. Here in Turin you can write because past and future have greater prominence than the present, the force of past history and the anticipation of the future give a concreteness and sense to the discrete, ordered images of today. Turin is a city which entices the writer towards vigour, linearity, style. It encourages logic, and through logic it opens the way towards madness.

[Unpublished note on Turin from 1960.]

Questionnaire, 1956

Italo Calvino's Replies to a Survey by Il Caffé

Bio-bibliographical details

I was born on 15 October 1923 in Santiago de Las Vegas, a village near Havana, where my agronomist father, a Ligurian from San Remo, was the director of an experimental agriculture institute, and my mother, who was Sardinian and a botanist, was his assistant. Unfortunately, I cannot remember anything about Cuba, because by 1925 I was already in Italy, in San Remo, where my father had returned with my mother to take charge of an experimental floriculture institute. My birth overseas now boils down to an unusual detail on official forms, a bundle of family memories, and a first name which was inspired by the pietas of émigrés towards their own household gods, but which back in their homeland sounded brazen and pompously patriotic like Carducci's poetry. I lived with my parents in San Remo until I was twenty, in a garden full of rare and exotic plants, and in the woods of the hinterland behind San Remo with my father, an old and indefatigable hunter. When I was old enough to go to university, I enrolled in the Agriculture Faculty because of this family tradition and with no real vocation, but my head was already full of literature. In the meantime the German occupation took place and, fulfilling political ideals I had held for some time, I fought with the Garibaldini partisans in the same woods that my father had taught me to know as a boy. After the Liberation I enrolled in the Arts Faculty, in Turin, and I graduated, far too quickly, in 1947, with a thesis on Joseph Conrad. My initiation into the world of literature came about towards the end of 1945, in the ambience of Vittorini and his journal Il Politecnico, which published one of my first short stories. But by then my very first short story had been read by Pavese who recommended it to Muscetta's Aretusa which published it. My development as a writer was primarily due to Pavese's teaching: I worked closely with him on a daily basis in the last years of his life. I have been living in Turin since 1945, always in the ambit of the Einaudi publishing house, for which I started to work by selling books on hire purchase, and it is in their editorial offices that I still work today. In the past ten years I have written only a fraction of the things I would have liked to write, and I have published only a small proportion of what I have written, in the four books that have been printed so far.

Which critic has been most supportive of you? And which most hostile?

They have all been far too generous about my books, right from the outset, from the most authoritative names to the young critics of my own generation: among the former I am delighted to mention here De Robertis, who has followed my work closely from my first book onwards, and Cecchi for what he wrote about The Cloven Viscount, not to mention Bo, Bocelli, Pampaloni, Falqui and also poor old Cajumi who was my first ever reviewer. The few critics who have been unfavourable are those who intrigue me most, the ones from whom I expect more: however, I have not been lucky enough to have received a negative critique which is both serious and in-depth, one which teaches me useful things. I did receive an article by Enzo Giachino, when The Path to the Spiders' Nests came out, a total, absolute dismissal of the book, a real hatchet-job, but also extremely witty, which is perhaps one of the best articles written about my books, one of the few which every so often I like to reread, but not even that taught me anything really: it attacked only external aspects of the novel, which I could have improved by myself.

Could you tell us briefly something about the aesthetic canon that you subscribe to?

I expounded some general ideas of mine on literature in a lecture last February, entitled 'Il midollo del leone' ['The Lion's Marrow'] and recently published in a journal. At present I would not want to add anything to that. But bear in mind that I am far from claiming that I succeed in putting into practice what I go around preaching. I write as well as I can on each occasion.

From what background, and from what characters and situations, do you like to derive the themes of your books?

I still don't really know, and this is perhaps why I change tack so frequently. In nearly all my most successful works there is the backdrop of the Riviera, and they are therefore often connected to the world of my childhood and adolescence. From the point of view of fidelity to one's own themes, my moving away from the town of my childhood and my ancestors deprived me of a certain source of inspiration, but on the other hand one cannot write about something one is still inside. For a long time now I have been trying to write something about Turin, which is for many profound reasons my adopted city, but it never works out properly. Perhaps I need to leave Turin to manage it. As for social classes, I cannot say that I write about one rather than another. As long as I was writing about partisans I was certain that it worked well: I had understood lots of things about the partisans, and through them I had become familiar with several social strata, including those on the very fringes of society. I am very interested in working-class people, but I still cannot write about them convincingly: it is one thing to be interested in something, it is quite another knowing how to represent it successfully. I am not really discouraged by this: I will learn to do it, sooner or later. I do not have very strong roots in my class, the bourgeoisie, since I was born into a nonconformist family, which was very far from traditional ways of thinking and behaving; and I should say that the middle class do not interest me very much, not even for polemical purposes. I am going into all this detail because I set out to reply to the question, not because these are problems that disrupt my sleep. The stories that I am interested in narrating are always stories about a search for human completeness, integration, to be achieved through trials that are both practical and moral at the same time, and that constitute something above and beyond all the alienation and division that is imposed on contemporary man. This is where any poetic and moral unity in my work should be sought.

Who is your favourite contemporary Italian novelist? And which of the younger writers interests you most?

I think that Pavese remains the most important, most complex and the densest Italian writer of our time. Whatever problem you set yourself, you cannot but refer back to him, both as a literary expert and as a writer. Vittorini, too, with the literary discourse he initiated, influenced my development strongly. I say 'initiated', because today we have the impression that it was a discourse left half-finished, which we are waiting to take up again. Later on, once we had got beyond the phase of a predominant interest in new experiments with language, I moved closer to Moravia, who is the only writer in Italy who is an author in a way that I would call 'institutional': that is, he produces at regular intervals works which each time chart the moral definitions of our times, definitions which deal with the way we behave, the way society is developing, and general trends in the way we think. My penchant for Stendhal makes me feel I have much in common with Tobino, though I cannot forgive him his affected glorying in being provincial and, what's more, Tuscan. I have a particular predilection for and indeed friendship with Carlo Levi, first and foremost because of his anti-romantic polemics, and secondly because his non-fiction narratives represent the most serious way forward for a literature that deals with society in a problematic manner; however, I do not go along with his claim that today this kind of narrative must replace the novel, which, as far as I am concerned, serves other purposes.

Turning to younger writers, in the small group of authors born around 1915, Cassola and Bassani have set about studying certain fractures in the Italian middle-class conscience, and theirs are the most interesting stories that one can read nowadays; but in Cassola I would criticize a certain superficiality of reactions in the way his works deal with human relationships, and in Bassani the hint of preciosity that makes you think of the Crepuscular poets in Italy. Among those of us who are even younger and who began by working with story-formats that were tough, set among workers, full of action, the one who has gone furthest down that road is Rea. Now there is Pasolini, one of the foremost exponents of his generation both as poet and as a literary expert: he has written a novel about which I feel many reservations as regards its 'poetics', but the more one thinks about it, the more you feel it is something which is well-finished and which will last.

Biographie de l'auteur :

Italo Calvino (1923—1985) was born in Cuba and grew up in San Remo, Italy. He was a member of the partisan movement during the German occupation of northern Italy in World War II. The novel that resulted from that experience, published in English as The Path to the Nest of Spiders, won widespread acclaim. His other works of fiction include The Baron in the Trees, The Castle of Crossed Destinies, Cosmicomics, Difficult Loves, If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler, Invisible Cities, Marcovaldo, Mr. Palomar, The Nonexistent Knight & the Cloven Viscount, t zero, Under the Jaguar Sun, The Watcher and Other Stories, and Numbers in the Dark. His works of nonfiction include include The Road to San Giovanni and Six Memos for the Next Millennium.

À propos de cette édition

• Éditeur: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
• Date d'édition: 2004
• ISBN 10: 037571426X
• ISBN 13: 9780375714269
• Reliure: Broché
• Nombre de pages: 272