tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-371973612024-03-15T21:12:55.996-04:00CiambellinaMe = I write, I edit, I speak Italian, I teach & I do some translation, too. Plus, I love these little sugar-dusted donuts that the Italians call ciambelline. Ciambellina = Chah-Mm-Bayl-LEEna. Welcome & start reading!Ciambellinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00566775731919584081noreply@blogger.comBlogger1121125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37197361.post-50172707441904097602024-03-07T06:00:00.002-05:002024-03-07T08:10:36.260-05:00An Oscar-winning film, seen on a whim, changed my life<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/stLekU5BnbI?si=HEKmPbM0fNzIXTbo" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>
<p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 22pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><a name="_Hlk160094103"></a><a name="_Hlk160003361"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk160094103;"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">I don’t pay much attention to the
<b>Oscars</b> ceremony, which will air on Sunday. Most years, I don’t see a single
movie that’s been nominated. “Barbie?” Haven’t seen it. “Oppenheimer”? Nope.
I’m a middle-aged mother with an 11-year-old son so I see few movies expressly
for adults.<o:p></o:p></span></span></a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 22pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">But once
upon a time, an Oscar nod was reason enough for me to go to the
movies. Ten days before leaving for college at <b>Wesleyan University</b>, I saw
what is now considered a modern Italian classic: <a href="https://youtu.be/stLekU5BnbI?si=HEKmPbM0fNzIXTbo " target="_blank">“Cinema Paradiso.”</a> It won the
1989 Oscar for best foreign film. And it changed my life.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 22pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">The main
character is a famous movie director named Totò who, in the years after World
War II, returns to the tiny Sicilian town where he grew up. </span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">The film begins in the present day, in an apartment in Rome,
but an unexpected phone call sends the director back to Sicily – and the movie
back in time.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 22pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">In the
director’s boyhood village, life revolves around the parish church and the
lone movie theater. That’s where the whole town convenes in the years before
television. Alfredo, the projectionist, is seen repeatedly shooing away Totò –
back when he’s an adorable but incorrigible boy who is infatuated with movies
and always grabbing strips of film that fall on the floor. Alfredo eventually
relents and agrees to teach him his profession. In the course of the film, Totò
transforms from a tiny tot who uses a stepstool to reach the projector into a
teen using his first movie camera to capture frames of a pretty girl he likes.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 22pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Before I
saw the film, I knew no Italian, and had no plans to study it. But when I
arrived at college a short while later, I enrolled in Italian 101 and signed up
for a hybrid literature-study abroad program – all because I fell in love with
the sounds I’d heard in the film. Eighteen months later, I left to study in
Italy, and after college, I went back to live in Tuscany as an ex-pat. Since
returning to the States, I’ve written <b>this blog</b> as an ode to small Italian
pleasures. The film is one of many reasons a part of me will forever
remain in Italy.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 22pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk160003361;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk160094103;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">The
movie does what all good fiction does: it makes you wish you lived in the world
evoked by the story, in this case, Italian small-town life. I felt as though I
had gone on vacation, to another country and another time. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 22pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">It also
reminds me of the necessity of pursuing something that’s not inherently useful
or handy. Knowing Italian won’t really get you out of a jam. Even traveling the
world, you’ll find Italian will help you in only a handful of place outside of
one solitary country (Italy). But studying Italian has been the great passion
of my life; it’s allowed me to step inside the mind of another culture and
revel in small moments, such as eavesdropping on a conversation between a
barista and a regular at café in Rome or dining in a remote countryside
restaurant where not a single other person speaks your native language.
Fluency, after all, is a form of immersion not unlike diving into a pool or
hiking the Appalachian Trail.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 22pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I saw
the film at a now-defunct arthouse cinema in Manhattan. Last year, I watched it
with my students at a small college in Hartford where I was teaching Italian. I
sat in the back of our darkened classroom, and took notes, my eyes
brimming with tears of nostalgia. In one scene, Totò is at home in his kitchen
pretending to be a cowboy, mimicking shoot-outs from westerns he’s watched at
the theater. A lighthearted moment balanced with the knowledge that his father
has gone off to war and never returns. In the space created by that absence,
Totò’s friendship with <b>Alfredo</b>, who is childless, looms far larger than the
token love story in the movie. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 22pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">The film
is about more than a boy who grows up to be a director; it’s about how longing
and loss shape our lives, as well as the power of community. Totò leaves his
provincial hometown on Alfredo’s advice, without ever looking back, and becomes
successful in the big city. But the cost to both men is considerable. On his
return, he sees what’s happened to the village – and his one-time mentor,
Alfredo – since then. As the director revisits landmarks of his youth, he
realizes he’s abandoned the people who loved him the most.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 22pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Watching the film at 18, I absorbed a culture completely foreign to my
suburban New York upbringing. It drove me to master Italian so I could
understand bits of dialogue that escaped me on the first viewing and it
introduced me to what would become my adopted country. Since then, its language
and customs have infiltrated every corner of my life. That 11-year-old son I
mentioned? <b>His name is Leonardo</b>, and one afternoon in Italy not too long ago, a
Florentine friend of mine insisted on teaching him to curse in Italian. I am
raising him in a house where Italian words cover every surface, from book
covers to the posters on the living room wall, and boxes of pasta in the
pantry. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 22pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">So go to
the movies. See a film you know nothing about. It might change your life. And
one day, when he’s a little older, I’ll watch “Cinema Paradiso” with Leonardo –
in the hopes that he, too, falls in love. With the movie or movie-making or
Italian. As long as he knows the beauty of falling in love with something
powerful enough to change your life.</span></p>
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk160094103;"></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk160003361;"></span>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p> -30-</o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://ciambellina.blogspot.com/</div>Ciambellinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00566775731919584081noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37197361.post-70479023591305504172024-01-27T00:00:00.002-05:002024-01-27T06:23:26.350-05:00Women Holocaust survivors: A Reading List<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYFolLrailmVtX7V0QI0Jtne-iPPSyMLp4TRQWdKKQLbCQ6smY7SSPvbgrWMWvgQW0ueMDMd0s95HGJS_V6fd4yQdDv-39tttlzRgxLyj6816VW23JKdaqU2bakAQViJBYsE7XTbdZwQwPuv4MJWjrlzx-aK6z8UWgGq_CSJZ0_1tV8Z82_bs6UA/s789/ANDREMO%20cover%209788834607930_0_536_0_75.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: times;"><img border="0" data-original-height="789" data-original-width="536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYFolLrailmVtX7V0QI0Jtne-iPPSyMLp4TRQWdKKQLbCQ6smY7SSPvbgrWMWvgQW0ueMDMd0s95HGJS_V6fd4yQdDv-39tttlzRgxLyj6816VW23JKdaqU2bakAQViJBYsE7XTbdZwQwPuv4MJWjrlzx-aK6z8UWgGq_CSJZ0_1tV8Z82_bs6UA/s320/ANDREMO%20cover%209788834607930_0_536_0_75.jpg" width="217" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: times;">To mark <b>International Holocaust Remembrance Day</b> (Jan. 27), below you'll find all the books I have read or want to read by or about women who survived the Holocaust. Note, this list is NOT exhaustive! Mainly Italian authors, for starters. But a good primer on works involving a group of survivors that has often been marginalized, as I wrote <a href="https://theamericanscholar.org/the-forgotten-writers-of-the-shoah/" target="_blank">in an article for the <i>American Scholar</i></a> last year. </span><p></p><p><u><span style="font-family: times;">Available in translation</span></u></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><i>Who Loves You Like This</i>, <b>Edith Bruck</b> (Paul Dry Books; Thomas Kelso, translator)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://www.bostonglobe.com/2023/07/20/arts/edith-brucks-lost-bread-an-account-holocaust-its-aftermath-cruelty-continues-survivors-even-after-auschwitz-is-closed/" target="_blank"><i>Lost Bread</i>, Edith Bruck</a> (Ibid., Gabriella Romani and David Yanoff, translators)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><i>Letter to My Mother</i>, Edith Bruck (Brenda Webster and Gabriella Romani, translators)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><i>There's a Place on Earth</i>, <b>Giuliana Tedeschi,</b> (Tim Parks, translator)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><i>Sentenced to Live, A Survivor's Memoir</i>, <b>Cecilie Klein</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i>Ravensbrück</i></span><span style="background-color: white;"><i>, The Women's Camp of Death</i>, </span><span style="background-color: white; font-weight: bold;">Denise Dufournier</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><i>Smoke Over Birkenau</i>, by <b>Liana Millu</b>, translated by Lynne Sharon Schwartz </span></p><p style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i>Auschwitz and After</i> by <b>Charlotte Delbo</b> (French resistance fighter)</span></p><div><p style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i>A Scrap of Time</i><b>, Ida Fink</b> (a collection of stories that includes <a href="https://pij.org/articles/508/the-key-game" style="text-decoration-line: none;">"The Key Game"</a> -- devastating)</span></p><p style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://www.full-stop.net/2023/06/19/reviews/jeanne-bonner/return-to-latvia-marina-jarre/" target="_blank"><i>Distant Fathers</i><b>, Marina Jarre </b></a>(click to read my reviews of both Jarre titles)</span></p><p style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i>Return to Latvia</i>, <b>Marina Jarre </b></span><span style="font-family: times;">(both Jarre books were translated by</span><b style="font-family: times;"> Ann Goldstein)</b></p><p style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i>*<b>Women in the Holocaust</b></i>, edited by Dalia Ofer and Lenore J. Weitzman (I cited this book in the<a href="https://theamericanscholar.org/the-forgotten-writers-of-the-shoah/" style="text-decoration-line: none;"> article I published in the <b><i>American Scholar</i></b></a> about women Holocaust survivors)</span></p></div><div><u><span style="font-family: times;">Not available in English translation</span></u></div><p style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i>L'esile filo della memoria</i>, <b>Lidia Beccaria Rolfi</b> (This book begins a few days before the writer was liberated from the concentration camp called Ravensbruck, which is fascinating because it deals with the saga of afterward. As if the saga of before -- the camps -- weren't enough.)</span></p><div><span style="font-family: times;"><b style="background-color: white;"><i>Come una rana d'inverno: </i></b><span style="background-color: white;"><i><b>Conversazioni con tre donne sopravvissute ad Auschwitz</b></i></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;">, Daniela Padoan (interviews with three women who survived the Holocaust) </span></span></div><p><span style="font-family: times;"><i>Il silenzio dei vivi</i>, Elisa Springer</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><i>Andremo in città</i>, Edith Bruck (Note, I'm translating this, thanks to an NEA grant)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><i>Due Stanze Vuote</i>, Edith Bruck (" ")</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><i>Transit</i>, Edith Bruck</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><i>Signora Auschwitz</i>, Edith Bruck</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><i>Scolpitelo nel vostro cuore</i>, Liliana Segre</span></p><p>-30-</p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://ciambellina.blogspot.com/</div>Ciambellinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00566775731919584081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37197361.post-83685104010819282462024-01-24T11:51:00.003-05:002024-01-25T12:41:46.140-05:00My Tiny Love Story in The New York Times<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2ft2A2rfir2_JxuBGinsdVcRBtgdzs4FgooBI_cccPSihXbp4H-ccIsC0DiWAJDEcS1O7xho5Cag5zlX1UclwRQsqeUyQhD63iOlMpp1nuZs8SmkibDLL2QozFHyNmIEWRWWqWhpc23AjsY_Q1quVf_bgOTRUm5_P8bFmRSHB9pAxeKFjCTk1lA/s792/TLS%20--%20Screenshot%202024-01-24%20063246.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="792" data-original-width="733" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2ft2A2rfir2_JxuBGinsdVcRBtgdzs4FgooBI_cccPSihXbp4H-ccIsC0DiWAJDEcS1O7xho5Cag5zlX1UclwRQsqeUyQhD63iOlMpp1nuZs8SmkibDLL2QozFHyNmIEWRWWqWhpc23AjsY_Q1quVf_bgOTRUm5_P8bFmRSHB9pAxeKFjCTk1lA/s320/TLS%20--%20Screenshot%202024-01-24%20063246.png" width="296" /></a></div><p>I've written a tiny love story for <b><i>The New York Times</i></b> and I think I'd like to compose one for everyone I've ever loved!</p><p>But I started with my first best friend, and it's a pretty good place to start.</p><p>World, this is my sister, <b>Denise</b>!</p><p>Coming to my rescue -- not for the first time.</p><p>The words came to me one day while I was taking a walk. That's so often how writing works, and in this case, since it's only 100 words, the few lines that might surface while out and about suffice!</p><p>We've had a two-year period of losses, but as monumental as those events were, little moments and gestures can often be decisive. Little moments that act like life boats.</p><p>To read the entry properly, <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2024/01/23/style/tiny-modern-love-stories-looking-for-a-casual-fling.html?unlocked_article_code=1.P00.Vc0v.3ghEFI-Q08u8&smid=url-share" target="_blank">click here</a>.</p><p><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://ciambellina.blogspot.com/</div>Ciambellinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00566775731919584081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37197361.post-40288997430573667672024-01-16T05:47:00.001-05:002024-01-16T05:47:00.139-05:00Ryan Holiday: These 38 Reading Rules Changed My Life<p>I don't agree with all of them, but I do find this list (link below) of 'reading rules' intriguing, and I agree with the author (Ryan Holiday) that any aim at reading well, widely and frequently can benefit from a strategy.</p><p>The rules I agree with:</p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #525452; font-family: Raleway, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">–"Do it all the time. Bring a book with you everywhere. I’ve read at the Grammy’s and in the moments before going under for a surgery. I’ve read on planes and beaches, in cars and in cars while I waited for a tow truck. You take the pockets of time you can get."</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #525452; font-family: Raleway, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">–"In every book you read, try to find your next one in its footnotes or bibliography. </span><a href="https://ryanholiday.net/read-to-lead/" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgb(102, 102, 102); background: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: #509ca1; font-family: Raleway, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; transition: all 0.25s ease-in-out 0s; vertical-align: baseline;">This is how you build a knowledge base</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #525452; font-family: Raleway, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"> in a subject—it’s how you trace a subject back to its core."</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #525452; font-family: Raleway, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">–"Don’t just read books, re-read books. There’s a great line the Stoics loved—that </span><a href="https://dailystoic.com/everything-is-changing-and-thats-wonderful/" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgb(102, 102, 102); background: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: #509ca1; font-family: Raleway, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; transition: all 0.25s ease-in-out 0s; vertical-align: baseline;">we never step in the same river twice</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #525452; font-family: Raleway, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">. The books don’t change, but you do."</span></p><p>Read more here:</p><p><a href="https://ryanholiday.net/these-38-reading-rules-changed-my-life/">https://ryanholiday.net/these-38-reading-rules-changed-my-life/</a></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://ciambellina.blogspot.com/</div>Ciambellinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00566775731919584081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37197361.post-91646359619457291332024-01-10T06:29:00.003-05:002024-01-10T06:29:00.141-05:00First line of "The Great Gatsby" -- in Italian<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMbCadL4RD5x0NeUQvQXar-CI_zrpAyhcBMbDV1bqQhLkbTB7s9NXjwd4KqiULTHL7CPTxZ5xYMn_nnhkJwHwtouDBrDeNuXx4EY01wC5-8bRBdl-m9vQjt4vnRFJgawWrc7DMm1RrXHS_xIx_MvguV0Uiq3sS-x05sYRKukQToLdw7VQddd-JUA/s448/grande-gatsby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="299" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMbCadL4RD5x0NeUQvQXar-CI_zrpAyhcBMbDV1bqQhLkbTB7s9NXjwd4KqiULTHL7CPTxZ5xYMn_nnhkJwHwtouDBrDeNuXx4EY01wC5-8bRBdl-m9vQjt4vnRFJgawWrc7DMm1RrXHS_xIx_MvguV0Uiq3sS-x05sYRKukQToLdw7VQddd-JUA/s320/grande-gatsby.jpg" width="214" /></a></div><span style="font-family: times;">One day, for no particular reason, I decided I absolutely had to know the opening lines of the Italian version of my favorite novel – and I needed to record it
somewhere … here, of course. So without further ado, I give you </span><b style="font-family: times;">F. Scott Fitzgerald</b><span style="font-family: times;"> in Italian:</span><p></p><p><i style="background-color: #f5f8fa;"><b><span style="font-family: times;"><span><span style="color: #14171a;">Negli anni più vulnerabili della giovinezza, </span></span><span style="color: #14171a;">mio padre mi diede un consiglio che non mi è mai più uscito di mente. "</span><span style="color: #14171a;">Quando ti viene voglia di criticare qualcuno," mi disse, "</span><span style="color: #14171a;">ricordati che non tutti a questo mondo </span><span style="color: #14171a;">hanno avuto i vantaggi che hai avuto tu."</span></span></b></i></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">Which in English is:</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: times;">In my younger and more vulnerable years, my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: times;">"Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone," he told me, "just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had."</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: times;">-30-</span></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://ciambellina.blogspot.com/</div>Ciambellinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00566775731919584081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37197361.post-29712810798290899192024-01-03T05:56:00.001-05:002024-01-03T05:56:00.135-05:00Happy heavenly birthday, Mariateresa Di Lascia!<p><span style="font-family: times;">Today is the birthday of Italian author and parliamentarian <b>Mariateresa Di Lascia</b> -- she would have been 69. She died in 1994 after writing a few short stories and completing a lone novel.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">I encountered her work when I was commissioned to write <a href="https://lithub.com/10-italian-books-by-women-wed-love-to-see-in-english/" target="_blank">an article for the <b><i>Literary Hub</i></b></a> site about Italian novels that hadn't been translated into English yet -- but should be. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">The novel, <i>Passaggio in Ombra</i> (my English title: "Into the Shadows") is a coming-of-age work that is one of many books to light the way for <b>Elena Ferrante </b>(both authors featuring women narrators bucking convention). As I've written before, <span style="color: #262626;">Di Lascia’s novel analyzes and exalts the interior lives of a group of women buffeted by their limited choices, their unruly desire for freedom and the price they pay for these desires (something anyone suffering from #Ferrantefever would understand).</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">I won a $5,000 grant from PEN America to jumpstart my translation work on the manuscript. Unfortunately it has yet to find a publisher. You can read <a href="https://pen.org/from-a-walk-in-the-shadows/" target="_blank">an excerpt of my translation here</a>.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">One of the lines I love best isn't in this excerpt and is about the narrator's father:</span></p><p><i><span style="font-family: times;">"When he thought about how
his life would turn out, what form it would take if indeed it would ever bend
itself to a specific shape, he felt something inside of him rebel. As if it
would be an unbearable imposition. In those days, he had one lone
desire: to preserve for as long as he could -- maybe even forever -- the freedom
to have no direction of any kind."<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">I've had to put her work aside because I have an <b><a href="https://www.arts.gov/impact/literary-arts/translation-fellows/jeanne-bonner" target="_blank">NEA translation grant</a></b> to work on selected short stories by Edith Bruck. But one day, I will return to the Di Lascia manuscript one day and I hope to publish it. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">-30-</span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://ciambellina.blogspot.com/</div>Ciambellinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00566775731919584081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37197361.post-68002837734084998352023-12-29T07:33:00.005-05:002024-01-01T07:36:09.170-05:00Montreal Journal & the joys of travel in 2023<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2O9snLSRVnoaXmQOHINC_OkOnwy_YJhu5Fy3Wq8xJLI_Or-Ztx1C-ClOhoEtLBde1TfXYK1GbOgeevIvataWpHZ51ULj9BjhxH-wsplM-uBn_kp9mJo2nEyrTuDPkFig2q1mcrgpYLpCN_IWC4cBL1O48QCY8gXlOcPXwqR75dacv3hCoCxtwAA/s4000/IMG_20230815_111644950_HDR.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: times;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2O9snLSRVnoaXmQOHINC_OkOnwy_YJhu5Fy3Wq8xJLI_Or-Ztx1C-ClOhoEtLBde1TfXYK1GbOgeevIvataWpHZ51ULj9BjhxH-wsplM-uBn_kp9mJo2nEyrTuDPkFig2q1mcrgpYLpCN_IWC4cBL1O48QCY8gXlOcPXwqR75dacv3hCoCxtwAA/s320/IMG_20230815_111644950_HDR.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-family: times;">I go to Montreal to <b>speak Italian</b> and shop at an Italian grocery store.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">And this year, I got to do both when I visited the Francophile Canadian city, <a href="https://www.nextavenue.org/visiting-montreal-for-the-culture/" target="_blank">while also writing about it!</a> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">Call me an Italophile in French-speaking Montreal, and a grateful traveler whenever I can get there, which is now more often since I live in New England (the gateway to Montreal, in my opinion).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; text-indent: 0.5in;">The post-war period saw a surge of Italian immigration to Canada such that the Italian community is slightly less assimilated there -- or slightly better at keeping traditions -- than in the States, and the culture a little more intact than in say New York's Little Italy. Plus, </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; text-indent: 0.5in;">Montreal has had to fight for its Francophone existence in the wider sea of Canada’s English speakers, and now sees the value in safeguarding other cultures, including their languages. So a stroll through Little Italy ("Petite Italie") is often an occasion for Italian language practice.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; text-indent: 48px;">At a bakery across the street from the </span><b style="color: #333333; text-indent: 48px;">Jean Talon market</b><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; text-indent: 48px;">, a young cashier immediately switched to Italian when he saw my shirt, which had an image of the iconic Italian coffee pot called the Moka. His grandfather was from Puglia, in Southern Italy, he told me, and he learned to speak fluent Italian as a child.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><o:p style="color: #333333; text-indent: 48px;"></o:p></span></p><div><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: times; text-indent: 0.5in;">As one person in Montreal told me, "We all speak three languages."</span></p></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">Little did I know when I visited as a child that Montreal would eventually become one of my kindred spots (assuming that places can be kindred spirits in the way people can -- sure feels like it).</span></div><div><span><a name='more'></a></span><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><p><span style="font-family: times;">This notion was especially solidified in my most recent visit over the summer with the addition of biking around the city via the BIXI app, similar to Citi Bikes in NYC. Pure joy = tooling around hipster Montreal on two wheels. Leafy neighborhoods such as Mile End, combined with amazing bike infrastructure (they even have rails to lean on at some intersections so you don't have to dismount).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">What makes the situation sweeter, as I said, was the opportunity to write about my love for Montreal in <a href="https://www.nextavenue.org/visiting-montreal-for-the-culture/" target="_blank">an article for the PBS website, </a><a href="https://www.nextavenue.org/visiting-montreal-for-the-culture/" target="_blank"><i>Next Avenue</i></a><b>.</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">Another dose of <i>douceur</i>: I get to speak French in Montreal! By which I mean, I get to stammer out, <b>"Une croissant" or "bonjour." </b>Amazing how much that tickles me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">Places I adore in Montreal:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">*Librarie Drawn & Quarterly (local bookstore)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">*Multimags (one day, I am going to buy EVERY magazine I want there)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">*Beaubien Bagels</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">*The Metro</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">*The Museum of Fine Arts</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">We also made other trips this year, including visits to my second home, <b>the Jersey Shore</b>, where my parents retired (who would retire to the Jersey Shore? My parents -- in a house a mile from where they had their first date. I never thought of them as romantic -- and yet isn't the evidence staring me in the face?).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">The house sits a mere three blocks from the beach, in a town I know like the back of my hand, sandwiched in between other towns I know (like picturesque Spring Lake, where my aunt and uncle live, and where my cousin had a fairy tale wedding that required some guests to cross a footbridge over a lake to reach the ceremony) and other towns I am getting to know (victorian Ocean Grove, and hopping Asbury Park).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">This past summer, we hosted my cousin, her wife and my godson at the house. Two generations of cousins together, enjoying the simplest of pleasures: time at the beach, good meals and conversation<b>.</b> And I thought, <span>How lucky I am to have this house (and these people!) in my life. Not any house
at the beach – any house wouldn’t do, as much as I adore the beach. This house, I thought, as I jotted down notes in a file on my laptop, my eye shifting between the computer
screen and the wisteria spilling over the arbor my father painstakingly built. A glimpse of the wisteria high up on the arbor -- a wild, tangled, purple mess -- tells me exactly where I am, and the lonesome train whistle alternating with the fog horn down at the beach provides a nostalgic soundtrack. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">I think a better writer would be able to parse this feeling properly but all I can say is my heart seems to beat outside my chest when I look around this Shore town because it is the town we visited growing up, the town where my Aunt Mary lived, where my grandparents rented houses, where the whole notion of a seashore and a weekend at the beach was crystalized for me. I look at the beach and it's the same one I saw at age 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 15, 23, 31, 43....and the way that reconnects me to a little girl I once was is breathtaking. Like having it all. You're big now, Jeanne Marie, but with all the thoughts and experiences from before.</span></p><div><span style="font-family: times;">The year included a lot of driving, and very often driving to see my mother at her nursing home in northern New Jersey. Sliding into the driver's seat, I used the radio dial as an airplane -- one that zooms me away to 1986, or 1992 or some other year that looms large in my mind. That means listening to WFUV, WKCR and CBS-FM, among other radio stations. If I chanced on WKCR during a jazz marathon, I was golden. One day, they were airing the <b>King Oliver’s Creole Jazz
band centennial broadcast </b><span>and the miles melted away</span><b>.</b></span></div><div><b><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></b></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3jlfz9n-pRM_YIOy-IDGhNfd3aORrgBH60RmwcVzlvqbZF9YTCqkJdlExCzlGzdblhFkWwL7XVCvAUZmzPhMZbOtOQzjk4rsLfXF4cd8jNOMN7rWuPqEFLgsCyLZkb1iUwXFnLzfCKnroLKQWb86dOERoqzbtqCkXLTYGTmEkJ3N6gck0Ldsb4w/s4160/Columbia%20U.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: times;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3jlfz9n-pRM_YIOy-IDGhNfd3aORrgBH60RmwcVzlvqbZF9YTCqkJdlExCzlGzdblhFkWwL7XVCvAUZmzPhMZbOtOQzjk4rsLfXF4cd8jNOMN7rWuPqEFLgsCyLZkb1iUwXFnLzfCKnroLKQWb86dOERoqzbtqCkXLTYGTmEkJ3N6gck0Ldsb4w/s320/Columbia%20U.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><span>We also visited Lake Champlain in Vermont, where we've stayed a half dozen times. Not surprisingly, the spot reminds me of my grandparents' beloved lake north of New York City where we spent endless amounts of time, growing up. While my grandparents' home was separated from the lake by a wide lawn where we played croquet, the cabin we rent in Vermont is perched at the absolutely edge of the water. The room closest to the water is a porch with two walls of windows, supplying</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"> uninterrupted access to the water, visually and aurally.</span></span></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: times;"><b>Most crucially, Lake Champlain is a spot where I paddleboard.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: times;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222;"><span class="gmaildefault">During our first visit to the lake as a family, I paddleboarded by a staircase to nowhere while circumnavigating a private island where we were staying -- and I was hooked. <b>(</b><a href="https://www.nextavenue.org/notes-from-my-paddleboard-on-finding-a-new-way-to-see-the-world/" target="_blank">I wrote about that, too)</a><b>.</b> This past summer, I f</span>inally found another staircase while paddleboarding ... maybe to nowhere, not sure<span class="gmaildefault">. But seeing the wooden frame flush with the rock face was enough.</span></span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><div><span style="font-family: times;"><span class="gmaildefault"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: #222222;">One</span></span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: #222222;"> night, a sailboat dropped anchor right off the point by our cabin. The next morning, we a<span class="gmaildefault"></span>woke to find it still there, like a temporary nautical neighbor.</span></span></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times;"><span>My final Lake
Champlain Journal entry read as follows: "The last image I have of our trip will be Leo
embracing Car</span><span style="background: white; color: #222222;">amel on the dock
shortly before we have to leave ... usually he will come back from errands in a
split second but he's been down there 10 minutes or more<span class="gmaildefault">."</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: times;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: times;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA5J1L8-PWSLifFcN_bp-_Fmtk7p0_ILGIKdCp7H2eUvSBr4o3HjmtxPFEcF19_liNIsh2E_CBIAYCfXWx8IGPWIXwPM0apXnP7H8fijWAG50TTq814YmfrozbJuq6RGn51DT_f305owlCW8WE-36vFq51WkAIWNgNtYoGu4Hla1n-iMUaCCWXZQ/s4160/0607231333Columbia%20U.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA5J1L8-PWSLifFcN_bp-_Fmtk7p0_ILGIKdCp7H2eUvSBr4o3HjmtxPFEcF19_liNIsh2E_CBIAYCfXWx8IGPWIXwPM0apXnP7H8fijWAG50TTq814YmfrozbJuq6RGn51DT_f305owlCW8WE-36vFq51WkAIWNgNtYoGu4Hla1n-iMUaCCWXZQ/s320/0607231333Columbia%20U.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: times;"><span style="background-color: transparent;">Even some day trips this year were infused with the joy of travel. As the school year approaches, I make a list of activities to squeeze in before Leo is home for the summer. This year: a day in New York City. The occasion: a one-day </span><b style="background-color: transparent;">Italian poetry translation conference at Columbia University.</b><span style="background-color: transparent;"> </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">(Yep, in one room: Italian + poetry + translation. I even met <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/jonathan-galassi" target="_blank">Jonathan Galassi</a>! Delightful man).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">As I boarded one of the slowpoke trains that stop in every Connecticut town, I chastised myself for dilly-dallying over breakfast instead of rushing to make a quicker train. Then I thought: </span></p><p><b><span style="font-family: times;">I AM ON A TRAIN HEADED TO NEW YORK CITY!</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: times;">NOTHING. IS. WRONG.</span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">And it was true! I was in Manhattan with other translators and lovers of Italian literature, spending a day focused on words<b>.</b> Later as I headed back to the train station, I meandered through Columbia's campus and ogled the stately buildings. Now that I am old, I shiver with emotion when I think about how momentous it would be to study in a temple of learning like that.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">So many places I want to go in <b>2024</b>. Philadelphia to see friends, Boston for the annual bookfair (and to see friends), New York City to come alive by reuniting with my past (and to see friends). Plus a foreign destination might be nice. Italy beckons as always but I learned when we lived in Pennsylvania that there are other countries in the world. Like Mexico! A stunning place; I am happy to say the world is full of them.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">-30-</span></p><p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://ciambellina.blogspot.com/</div>Ciambellinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00566775731919584081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37197361.post-91448604231419287132023-12-12T06:22:00.001-05:002023-12-17T07:56:00.832-05:00What I read in 2023 & what I plan to read in 2024<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRpCv04JSOiJcwOczR08RfpRGCMsWP-oYfhYt2AYBtzwrsUbCpGD2VNiLk_L-iXjPhSdgHCy8vOlMnjaRhyphenhyphenWkisXZDZIlH9ws4pDyrfXHIfECRJTznxtFzYbKhMWvJteD7_DS7npUvAG0krdrhdcJKwgWwX04T6k4dyt935yAndCEsvwfNOypEqw/s4000/BN%20book%20journal%20IMG_20231116_084251812.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRpCv04JSOiJcwOczR08RfpRGCMsWP-oYfhYt2AYBtzwrsUbCpGD2VNiLk_L-iXjPhSdgHCy8vOlMnjaRhyphenhyphenWkisXZDZIlH9ws4pDyrfXHIfECRJTznxtFzYbKhMWvJteD7_DS7npUvAG0krdrhdcJKwgWwX04T6k4dyt935yAndCEsvwfNOypEqw/s320/BN%20book%20journal%20IMG_20231116_084251812.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>I had a special mission this year to immerse myself in <b>Holocaust narrative</b> so I could find a publisher for <a href="https://www.arts.gov/impact/literary-arts/translation-fellows/jeanne-bonner">the short stories I am translating</a>, thanks to an NEA literature grant. Of course, I've been reading Holocaust narrative from the moment I began translating Bruck's work. Well, actually, before that, really, because as soon as I read Primo Levi's first book (<i>If This Is A Man</i>), I understood that this was seminal information -- and I read it in college.</p><p>But I think in 2023, this particular strand of my reading life came into focus: I will never know enough about the Holocaust or World War II, and so I am going to keep studying it until the end of time.</p><p>What's stunning: the horror never receded. What Holocaust victims and survivors endured is unthinkable. No passage of time can diminish the pure horror of what they experienced. And it's remarkable -- though that word fails -- how varied survivors' experiences are -- in other words, how many horrific ways Nazis and others found to torment these poor people. So I keep reading.</p><p>I wasn't especially productive, if my aim was to read a lot of books in full. Instead, I read parts of many books. But as I said, the reading I did about World War II and the Holocaust was seminal.</p><p>And so I will begin with books in that category:</p><div><u>Holocaust narrative or fiction based on the Holocaust</u></div><p>*<i><b>L'esile filo della memoria</b></i>, Lidia Beccaria Rolfi (This book begins a few days before the writer was liberated from the concentration camp called Ravensbruck, which is fascinating because it deals with the saga of afterward. As if the saga of before -- the camps -- weren't enough.)</p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>*<b>Cinque Storie Ferraresi</b></i> by Giorgio Bassani</p><p class="MsoNormal">*<b><i>Here in Our Auschwitz</i>,</b> Tadeusz Borowski </p><div>*<i><b>A Scrap of Time</b></i>, Ida Fink (a collection of stories that includes <a href="https://pij.org/articles/508/the-key-game">"The Key Game"</a> -- devastating)</div><p>*<i><b>Return to Latvia</b></i>, Marina Jarre (for a review)</p><p>*<b><i>I'd Like to Say Sorry, but There's No One to Say Sorry To</i></b>, Mikolaj Grynberg</p><p><i>*<b>Women in the Holocaust</b></i>, edited by Dalia Ofer and Lenore J. Weitzman (I read this book as part of <a href="https://theamericanscholar.org/the-forgotten-writers-of-the-shoah/">research for an article I published in the <b><i>American Scholar</i></b></a> about women Holocaust survivors)</p><p><i><b>Auschwitz and After</b></i> by Charlotte Delbo (French resistance fighter)</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><b>The Parnas</b></i> by Silvano Arieti<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>Art from the Ashes</i></b> (anthology)</p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>Against Forgetting</i></b> (anthology)</p><p class="MsoNormal">I read other books, of course, though I don't think I broke any records for number of titles consumed. Here's a sampling of what I read: </p><div><u>Children's books</u></div><p>I have fallen into a habit of auditioning a new genre each year. Last year, it was graphic novels (I also read one this year: <i><b>Moi aussi je voulais l'emporter)</b></i>. This year: children's books. Specifically by Kate DiCamillo:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsMJw9lIEnhqCn2jG9N-WUZww9erDIcDuXNQK83Cc7WjwAq6k5nU9ikY3wS67HNfpOwAXtVigu2DyzRvVa711PH5MU4hhCu117OL-MfnnSZvnpwYw7Md07SymtfombCZWgNFxUEz0Qev6erUv-7GXDqtmc-q6W6jatbA1p9GFmhebBC_m42Q9HSw/s500/DELPORTE%209782924049488-us-300.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="379" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsMJw9lIEnhqCn2jG9N-WUZww9erDIcDuXNQK83Cc7WjwAq6k5nU9ikY3wS67HNfpOwAXtVigu2DyzRvVa711PH5MU4hhCu117OL-MfnnSZvnpwYw7Md07SymtfombCZWgNFxUEz0Qev6erUv-7GXDqtmc-q6W6jatbA1p9GFmhebBC_m42Q9HSw/s320/DELPORTE%209782924049488-us-300.jpg" width="243" /></a></div><p><b><i>*Because of Winn-Dixie</i></b></p><p><b><i>*The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane</i></b></p><p>I guess you could say I've been reading children's books since 2012 when Leo was born, but these two books I read on my own -- Leo didn't have any interest. And they were beautiful. If you are trying to keep some awful tragedy at bay, and not succumb to tears, don't read them. Otherwise, proceed.</p><p>(Note, I read these books thanks to <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2020/03/30/books/review/kate-dicamillo-ann-patchett.html">an essay by Ann Patchett</a> on the joys of reading DiCamillo's books, regardless of your age)</p><div><p class="MsoNormal"><u>Department of re-reading<o:p></o:p></u></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>La strada che va in città</i></b>, Natalia Ginzburg (I could re-read Ginzburg until the end of my days)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>Voci della sera</i></b>, Natalia Ginzburg<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>Come una rana d'inverno</i></b>, Daniela Padoan (interviews with three women who survived the Holocaust)</p><p class="MsoNormal"><u>Books I perused (do they count?!)<o:p></o:p></u></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets -- </i>IN ITALIAN! </b>(From Rizzoli and technically belonging to Leo)</p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>The Pentagon Papers</i></b> (because Daniel Ellsberg died this year)<o:p></o:p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>L’Art Presque perdu de ne rien faire</i></b>, Dany Laferri<span face="Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background: white; border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #494949; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933px; padding: 0in;">è</span>re (as Montreal trip prep)<o:p></o:p></p><div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: times;"><b>*The bible in Italian </b>(I've never read it in Italian, now have I? So I bought a copy last year)</span></div></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><u>Books that fell into my lap -- serendipity</u></div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>Still Life</i></b> (Fiction) (thanks to my cousin-in-law <b>Stephanie</b>)</div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><i>Is That a Fish in Your Ear? Translation and the Meaning of Everything</i> </b>By David Bellos</div><div><br /></div><div><u>Nonfiction</u></div><div><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="font-style: italic;">The Years, </b>Annie Ernaux (The final line is a stunner: "Save something from the time where we will never be again." It captivated me so much I memorized the French version as well: "Sauver quelque chose du temps <span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #4d5156; font-family: inherit;">où</span></span> l'on ne sera plus jamais.")</p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>Strangers To Ourselves</i></b>, Rachel Aviv</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><div><b><i>High Fidelity</i></b> by Nick Hornby (in connection with West Hartford Reads, a library initiative)</div><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>Fever Pitch</i></b> by Nick Hornby (in connection with West Hartford Reads, a library initiative)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>The Faith of a Writer</i></b> by Joyce Carol Oates<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEineXh3YwcONypRVBgN1GcjLN3jit3pk8-n-IF886HxNtK0FiuFReVweQ8_1LplPQgmTHhoTDM6ZK6ASBujCWX6HLQcmBWFqPjhGkRdKPjfkuvaf5ercqg3wY6bbyq6rqje2AN0PvSLgNwDS98f36oYeSsQgG6_r8XTATsWYbA9aTmS1t5veVJwlg/s450/MAURICE%209780593133415.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="291" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEineXh3YwcONypRVBgN1GcjLN3jit3pk8-n-IF886HxNtK0FiuFReVweQ8_1LplPQgmTHhoTDM6ZK6ASBujCWX6HLQcmBWFqPjhGkRdKPjfkuvaf5ercqg3wY6bbyq6rqje2AN0PvSLgNwDS98f36oYeSsQgG6_r8XTATsWYbA9aTmS1t5veVJwlg/s320/MAURICE%209780593133415.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><u>Other notables</u></p><p><b><i>The Ones Who Don't Say They Love You</i></b>, <span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: times; font-size: 14.85px;">Maurice Carlos Ruffin</span> (Fiction/Short Stories)</p><p><b><i>Paris Stories</i></b>, Mavis Gallant (Fiction/Short Stories)</p><div><p class="MsoNormal"><i><b>Reporting Live</b>, </i>Lesley Stahl (memoir)</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://www.cleavermagazine.com/scene-of-the-crime-a-novel-by-patrick-modianom-reviewed-by-jeanne-bonner/"><i><b>Scene of the Crime</b></i>, Patrick Modiano</a> (“…another memory from that time emerged into the light, like strange flowers floating to the surface of stagnant waters.” I wrote a review of it for a small literary magazine, which you can read by clicking on the title.)</p><p class="MsoNormal"><u>What I plan to read in 2024</u></p></div></div><p>Another book by <b>Annie Ernaux</b> (Using this guide from the Nobel Prize folks to help me out: <a href="https://www.nobelprize.org/what-to-read-books-by-annie-ernaux/">https://www.nobelprize.org/what-to-read-books-by-annie-ernaux/</a>)</p><p>Whatever Patrick Modiano writes (in translation)</p><p>Something/anything by Montreal-born graphic novelist <b>Julie Delporte</b></p><p>Emily Wilson's translation of <i>The Odyssey</i> (but I said this last year as well so we'll see)</p><p><i>L'Agnese va a morire</i></p><p><i>At the Mind's Limits</i></p><p><a href="https://bookshop.org/p/books/a-farm-life-observations-from-fields-and-forests-daryln-brewer-hoffstot/18589809"><i><b>A Farm Life: Observations from Fields and Forests</b></i> by my friend Daryln Brewer Hoffstot</a></p><p><u>Leftover from last year:</u></p><div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b>*</b>The Letters of Alberto Moravia and Elsa Morante (<i>Quando verrai saro’ quasi felice</i>)</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px;"><span style="font-family: times;">*Clint Smith's <i>How the Word Is Passed</i></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i>*The Friends of Eddie Coyle</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><i><br /></i></span></div><p><b>What will <i>you</i> read?</b> What do you think <i>I</i> should read? What did you read this year? <b>Leave comments</b> here or in the post on Facebook. You can see the genres I read -- Italian fiction and nonfiction, memoir, Holocaust narrative, et al -- so please make some suggestions! Or something from a completely different genre. </p><p>Happy reading! And Happy New Year! And happy reading in the new year.</p><p>-30-</p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://ciambellina.blogspot.com/</div>Ciambellinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00566775731919584081noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37197361.post-47409882004629181852023-12-07T05:48:00.003-05:002023-12-08T06:36:52.026-05:00The Year in Writing & Crying (2023)<p><span style="font-family: times;">I considered 2022 a terrible year in writing for me so I suppose 2023 couldn't help but be better.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">As it turns out, 2023 was quite a year for publishing my writing but almost certainly one of the worst years for me personally. That means I am going to report what I accomplished but skip some of the editorializing and grandstanding that normally comes along with this task. Accomplishing a lot in the writing world doesn't bring anyone back from the dead.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">It didn't keep me from writing about the dead -- but that was back before I knew those ranks would swell.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">In any event, in brief, here's what I published:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-size: 12pt;">For </span><i style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px;">The Millions, </i><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px;">I wrote an essay about reading my father's books in the wake of his death. It's called,</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 12pt;"> <b>"The Books that Made My Father"</b>:</span></span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://themillions.com/2023/01/the-books-that-made-my-father.html"><span style="background: white; font-size: 12pt;">https://themillions.com/2023/01/the-books-that-made-my-father.html</span></a><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><div><span style="font-family: times;">As I've mentioned, I always aim to land work in new journals (see below). I also sometimes want to deepen my relationship with a publication by publishing work in a different section. I was thrilled this year, for multiple reasons, to publish <a href="https://www.bostonglobe.com/2023/07/20/arts/edith-brucks-lost-bread-an-account-holocaust-its-aftermath-cruelty-continues-survivors-even-after-auschwitz-is-closed/" target="_blank">a book review in the <b><i>Boston Globe</i></b> of a book by the Italian author</a> I am translating. The book, <b><i>Lost Bread</i></b>, which was translated by Gabriella Romani, revisits her childhood and, of course, the worst moment of her childhood: deportation by the Nazis.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">I also managed to publish a s<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 12pt;">cholarly essay (maybe scholar-ish, no footnotes and I didn't include any digs about other scholars) on what women writers can tell us about surviving the Holocaust. It's called <b>"The Forgotten Writers of the Shoah,"</b> and it was published by the <i>American Scholar </i>in September. I began work on it when I had a short fellowship at the New York Public Library in <b>2021.</b></span></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://theamericanscholar.org/the-forgotten-writers-of-the-shoah/">https://theamericanscholar.org/the-forgotten-writers-of-the-shoah/</a><o:p></o:p></span></p><div><span><a name='more'></a></span><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><p><span style="font-family: times;">I also managed to publish travel writing, which is rare for me (who doesn't want to write about his or her travels? So it's very competitive). This was a first, too: publishing an article about Italy that intersects with my translation work. It's about commemorative stones that have been laid in cities around Italy to mark the homes or points of arrest of Nazi-fascist victims, many of them Jews.</span></p><p><a href="https://www.nextavenue.org/stepping-stones-reveal-italys-dark-history/"><span style="background: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">https://www.nextavenue.org/stepping-stones-reveal-italys-dark-history/</span></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">It was the first time I'd published something with <b><i>Next Avenue</i></b>, a PBS site. </span></span>In addition to travel writing about Italy, I also published an article about Montreal for the site:</span></p><p><a href="https://www.nextavenue.org/visiting-montreal-for-the-culture/"><span style="font-family: times;">https://www.nextavenue.org/visiting-montreal-for-the-culture/</span></a></p><div><span style="font-family: times;">Didn't do much in the way of other reviews<a href="https://www.cleavermagazine.com/scene-of-the-crime-a-novel-by-patrick-modianom-reviewed-by-jeanne-bonner/" target="_blank"> but I did write about Modiano, a personal passion</a>. </span></div><p><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: times;">I read just about whatever he writes, and this year, I decided to pitch a book review of his latest, though I don't think it's his best.</span></span></p><div><p><span style="font-family: times;">Let me put this out there: who's the Italian Modiano? (Note: Italian surname, but French author) I should know, but I don't so help me! Who's the Spanish Modiano? Who's the ...</span></p></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">While I don't feel like celebrating my writing this year, I can celebrate my translation work since that benefits someone else. I published one of the stories from the manuscript that won an <b>NEA</b> literature grant in translation:<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 12pt;"> “Silvia.” The story won the Hunger Mountain Translation Prize and was published in </span><i style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt;">Hunger Mountain </i><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt;">in</span><i style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt;"> </i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 12pt;">February.</span></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://hngrmtn.org/issues/hunger-mountain-27/translation/"><span style="background: white; font-size: 12pt;">https://hngrmtn.org/issues/hunger-mountain-27/translation/</span></a><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p>Last but not least, I published a story 30 years in the making -- exactly. An article that in my drafts folder I dubbed, "How Italy Ruined My Life." Sophia, my editor at <a href="https://themillions.com/2023/11/the-quiet-exhilaration-of-reading-in-italian.html" target="_blank"><b><i>The Millions</i></b>, went with a different headline</a>.</o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">It was a good year for writing for me. But now I know a good year for writing can do nothing to diminish my sadness when it's been a bad year for living -- and the living. </span></p><div><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p>-30-</o:p></span></div><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://ciambellina.blogspot.com/</div>Ciambellinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00566775731919584081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37197361.post-52964363926576038762023-11-29T08:54:00.000-05:002023-11-29T08:54:03.704-05:00How Italy Ruined My Life (sort of -- for The Millions)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmsTVII3XrSrsR-d1AcGj2KDC_-u77GPL5f6-yJhUqVkpkxiI9LrgVhLFeJi5ZKk18ZmYk4c3XFV1DzoXxBHTnv4M62IXDBvGQkz_sRagqnuou53aAcl1xJV13-c3yh__YTcyd1xXlWZXJZFZQT0TR4GUYE2lVcDOTPoXtkEqd2-lM1wvJVWOZvg/s1519/Screenshot%202023-11-29%20084939.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="829" data-original-width="1519" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmsTVII3XrSrsR-d1AcGj2KDC_-u77GPL5f6-yJhUqVkpkxiI9LrgVhLFeJi5ZKk18ZmYk4c3XFV1DzoXxBHTnv4M62IXDBvGQkz_sRagqnuou53aAcl1xJV13-c3yh__YTcyd1xXlWZXJZFZQT0TR4GUYE2lVcDOTPoXtkEqd2-lM1wvJVWOZvg/s320/Screenshot%202023-11-29%20084939.png" width="320" /></a></div><p>The way Italian plunges me into an <b>intoxication</b> of sound and thought is something I've wanted to write about for a long time.</p><p>The way the Italian language is like a person in my life, "a <b>twin</b> who accompanies me everywhere -- for better or for worse," the way knowing a foreign tongue "confers a special passport" or how my attempts to convince Florentines I had mastered their language -- <i>la lingua di Dante</i> -- devolved into nothing short of high school hazing ... yes I've wanted to explore this topic for so long.</p><p>And now I have! Thanks to my editor, Sophia, at <b>The Millions</b>.</p><p>You can read the essay here:</p><p><a href="https://themillions.com/2023/11/the-quiet-exhilaration-of-reading-in-italian.html">https://themillions.com/2023/11/the-quiet-exhilaration-of-reading-in-italian.html</a></p><p>-30-</p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://ciambellina.blogspot.com/</div>Ciambellinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00566775731919584081noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37197361.post-76945320674695740932023-09-23T08:13:00.007-04:002024-01-27T07:30:53.839-05:00What women Holocaust survivors can teach us<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKHs8NtDoQd1UAB4LIEHoOEbC1v9WaE9wjVJ3dobUjj6QHYtAQChHSqy91eYS1HpquqHLQEfcWIYkKTw2YFUlvyrEvmBCCcBZdiugJDTru40nYUjpT8TIFrDMZVmlGJazacZ0MEJjQ4NHl2qQraZYu-tZXH6fJocKzDA6bWKi5x1vwGq_81DR34w/s697/Amer%20Scholar%20Screenshot%202023-09-23%20074532.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="697" data-original-width="583" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKHs8NtDoQd1UAB4LIEHoOEbC1v9WaE9wjVJ3dobUjj6QHYtAQChHSqy91eYS1HpquqHLQEfcWIYkKTw2YFUlvyrEvmBCCcBZdiugJDTru40nYUjpT8TIFrDMZVmlGJazacZ0MEJjQ4NHl2qQraZYu-tZXH6fJocKzDA6bWKi5x1vwGq_81DR34w/s320/Amer%20Scholar%20Screenshot%202023-09-23%20074532.png" width="268" /></a></div><p>When I went to study at the <b>New York Public Library</b> in connection with a short fellowship I'd won, my intention was to study the author whose work I was translating (Edith Bruck). Sure, I planned to look at other analogous works in translation.</p><p>But I wasn't expecting to uncover a trove of information about how women's experiences of deportation and imprisonment by the Nazis differed from men's experiences -- and more importantly, differed from the accepted notion of the Lager in the public imagination.</p><p>What I mean is: what we know about concentration camps comes largely from the accounts of men, including authors I prize such as <b>Primo Levi</b> and Elie Wiesel.</p><p>Their stories are essential, of course, but so, too, are the stories of clandestine pregnancies in the Lager and the fates of so many children which hung on whether their mothers chose to save themselves or accepted dying along with their little ones (since children were typically slated for immediate elimination). </p><p>The only universally known story of the Holocaust not penned by a man is <b><i>The Diary of Anne Frank</i></b>. But there is so much more we need to learn -- and as the number of living witnesses dwindles, there's no time to lose.</p><p>Please read more at the <b><i>American Scholar</i></b>:</p><p><a href="https://theamericanscholar.org/the-forgotten-writers-of-the-shoah/">https://theamericanscholar.org/the-forgotten-writers-of-the-shoah/</a></p><p>And thank you.</p><p>End of ORIGINAL POST here.</p><p>Adding: I've jotted down some titles for anyone who wants to begin exploring books by women survivors, specifically. Here's a link to that post:</p><p><a href="https://ciambellina.blogspot.com/2024/01/women-holocaust-survivors-reading-list.html">https://ciambellina.blogspot.com/2024/01/women-holocaust-survivors-reading-list.html</a></p><p>-30-</p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://ciambellina.blogspot.com/</div>Ciambellinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00566775731919584081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37197361.post-20542432368160741372023-08-27T06:33:00.000-04:002023-08-27T06:33:39.775-04:00First Boston Globe book review pubbed -- YES!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Sz1dJs39is8sqaUGElcpHF16nIXeSq-EhUGGui0w455cWQx7rqQo3YyRz_u1cRtEMrlBDw6f7uj-AocCNWtHQ4Z_N695pDmzkDGSRWNwMRUJ8t1GZYqGWJbV_kZKIayCIkn_jA9Vg9FnyNfqzAE-NOKZ4sUhNM1DLw1DBIcqXM9Q6LnhpsJPug/s1173/Globe%20Review%20Screenshot%202023-08-27%20062704.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="798" data-original-width="1173" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Sz1dJs39is8sqaUGElcpHF16nIXeSq-EhUGGui0w455cWQx7rqQo3YyRz_u1cRtEMrlBDw6f7uj-AocCNWtHQ4Z_N695pDmzkDGSRWNwMRUJ8t1GZYqGWJbV_kZKIayCIkn_jA9Vg9FnyNfqzAE-NOKZ4sUhNM1DLw1DBIcqXM9Q6LnhpsJPug/s320/Globe%20Review%20Screenshot%202023-08-27%20062704.png" width="320" /></a></div><p>Thrilled to land a book review in the Sunday <b>Boston Globe</b>!</p><p>I am a fan of the Globe's arts coverage and besides, it's not easy to find good places to publish book reviews these days that actually pay something.</p><p>Thrilled the topnotch art staff came up with a custom illustration that illuminated the book's theme with the signature image (for many Holocaust memoirs and related books) of barbed wire.</p><p>Here's hoping a lot of Boston Globe readers took my advice to heart and read the book. Lord knows, I read a lot of book reviews and don't ever get around to read the actual books!</p><p>The piece ran last month. I meant to post this sooner! Anyhoo, here's a link to the book review:</p><p><a href="https://www.bostonglobe.com/2023/07/20/arts/edith-brucks-lost-bread-an-account-holocaust-its-aftermath-cruelty-continues-survivors-even-after-auschwitz-is-closed/">https://www.bostonglobe.com/2023/07/20/arts/edith-brucks-lost-bread-an-account-holocaust-its-aftermath-cruelty-continues-survivors-even-after-auschwitz-is-closed/</a></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://ciambellina.blogspot.com/</div>Ciambellinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00566775731919584081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37197361.post-4715880205578753492023-07-10T16:07:00.001-04:002023-07-10T21:44:47.789-04:00For your trip to Florence -- buonviaggio!<p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzSc10gW7jvWOor7eCoWoa1-5hoPMpQTr2kyPnwevIFf6NJhk0IVNdj79U6LKCC3g5HeurjO-_skAttADcN8FoHoLn6ZTFo3V9OPBwgiudMoapyGILCRIQFe1Ga04s3PLh5ThsUC_o2mvcbkGqOV4MOvyX26IoeUuLv7gzwMH_IjyUoQQzKAEH_Q/s4160/0730220725a.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzSc10gW7jvWOor7eCoWoa1-5hoPMpQTr2kyPnwevIFf6NJhk0IVNdj79U6LKCC3g5HeurjO-_skAttADcN8FoHoLn6ZTFo3V9OPBwgiudMoapyGILCRIQFe1Ga04s3PLh5ThsUC_o2mvcbkGqOV4MOvyX26IoeUuLv7gzwMH_IjyUoQQzKAEH_Q/s320/0730220725a.jpg" width="320" /></a></span>When my aunt and uncle
embarked on a trip to Florence last year (after an absence of 40 years!), I
realized I have slightly skimped on travel tips here on Ciambellina or in some
cases not organized the posts with tips well so I am going to try to unite
everything here in one post. Everything you -- my friend, my Ciambellina
reader, my cousin, my uncle -- need to know in order to have a special trip to
Florence, Italy (where I still live in my heart). You can thank Aunt Maureen
and Uncle Pat!</p><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Before I get to specific
tips and itineraries, let me mount my linguistic soap box: <b>learn some
Italian before you go</b>. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Not to be nice or
cosmopolitan, and not to improve the American image abroad. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">But rather because: <b>speaking
Italian with an Italian is one of life's special pleasures.</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">The other major bits of advice:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222;">*Walk as much as possible</span></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">*Visit the main produce markets<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222;">*Have a ciambellina (and bring a few back for me).</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">OK, sermon over.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><u><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Where to go</span></u><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Assuming you will tick off
the major sites listed in your guide book or online (the Duomo, the Uffizi, l'Accademia, San Marco, Cappella Brancacci, etc.), I will move onto advice
about other attractions in Florence.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpQeQkYkJEiqMxVL5dkbUzOh6mj86eOPe-CspwS7hpLDhuEPD8fKJNUymd5OnVU3_gLoQXwPwD02qMaiTVHfPRSM8jZMPvpbH9ORxGpnbt23Tw4BtVwWU_aOwPTRIG0H4ru16oIn5RjXMiw3Fl3iAcWAqt2GeD_PdBi7bZtHPiq9Eh9weQdX1Nqw/s4160/0729221255.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpQeQkYkJEiqMxVL5dkbUzOh6mj86eOPe-CspwS7hpLDhuEPD8fKJNUymd5OnVU3_gLoQXwPwD02qMaiTVHfPRSM8jZMPvpbH9ORxGpnbt23Tw4BtVwWU_aOwPTRIG0H4ru16oIn5RjXMiw3Fl3iAcWAqt2GeD_PdBi7bZtHPiq9Eh9weQdX1Nqw/s320/0729221255.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">One of the main recommendations I want to make is:
Visit the <b>Villa and Giardino Bardini</b>. Most people visit
Boboli Gardens, which is quite lovely but I think the Bardini is even better.
The gardens are gorgeous [terraced in some parts] and the views stunning. When
I was in Florence last summer, our ticket somehow got us entry to both, though
I don't know how you would visit both in one day and see everything. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222;">(Note, they are both on the other side of the river).</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222;">Also on the other side of the river: </span><b style="color: #222222;">Forte
Belvedere and Piazzale Michelangelo</b><span style="color: #222222;">. I recommend walking to both, but have
your walking shoes handy. Both sights are gorgeous, with views equally as
gorgeous. There's likely some important historical note someone else could tell
you about.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222;">There are also specific corners of the city that I
love. I'll start with piazzas: </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><u><span style="color: #222222; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Piazzas I love (to walk through, to stroll through, to
gaze at, to sit in)</span></u></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222;">Piazza Santo Spirito</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Piazza del Carmine<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Piazza dei Ciompi<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Piazza della Repubblica (now with a carousel)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Piazza della Signoria<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><u><span style="color: #222222; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Quirky neighborhoods</span></u></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: #222222; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Santa Croce:</span></b><span style="color: #222222;"> the
area across from the piazza and the church was originally settled by Etruscans
and it's one of the few places in the city where roads curve. There are some
tiny, hidden piazzas and <i>viuzze</i> here that are fun to discover.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: #222222; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Piazza Torquato Tasso:</span></b><span style="color: #222222;"> Real people live in this neighborhood! Locals
gather to play soccer in the park at the center of the piazza and you could go
over to Al Tranvai if you wanted authentic but decidedly unfussy Florentine
food.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222;">Speaking of which...</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><u><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Where to eat</span></u><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">I mentioned <a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/37197361/8684172714348123467"><span style="color: blue;">Trattoria Cammillo</span></a> (Borgo San Iacopo, #57R)
in a previous post about restaurants in Florence because it's a place that I
like (and Beyonce also liked it!). <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: #222222; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Cibreo</span></b><span style="color: #222222;"> is
also good -- there are actually multiple Cibreo storefronts in the same
basic area, depending on your budget (Via Andrea del Verrocchio #8R). Here
are some other recommendations:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/37197361/8684172714348123467"><span style="color: #1155cc;">https://ciambellina.blogspot.com/2015/05/where-to-eat-in-florence-update.html</span></a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222;">Note, a lot of the places I like are on the other side
of the river and two are in </span><b style="color: #222222;">Piazza Santo Spirito</b><span style="color: #222222;">: Trattoria
Casalinga and Borgo Antico. The piazza is also quite lovely (see above) and the
church was my father's favorite (designed by Brunelleschi).</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222;">I also love </span><b style="color: #222222;">Ristorante Caffe Italiano</b><span style="color: #222222;"> on
my old street, Via della Vigna Vecchia.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvjZbXvI3L1JejBINHrdb8kZp5wuC5xhiWF7L4CUBFQAGa_cRsD9iY7_-lmex9xLH7v-JOWsm1XmskECMg71Gie7hsRT7OlId8qokVxtNYWzo4Ce9zzdwwu56RFw1P_6w00UO_fCNGmt6dVfnGvRj3Y6ay5aX0jBaWcO9QYcrIzsxB-rM9iqOJjQ/s4160/0728221913.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvjZbXvI3L1JejBINHrdb8kZp5wuC5xhiWF7L4CUBFQAGa_cRsD9iY7_-lmex9xLH7v-JOWsm1XmskECMg71Gie7hsRT7OlId8qokVxtNYWzo4Ce9zzdwwu56RFw1P_6w00UO_fCNGmt6dVfnGvRj3Y6ay5aX0jBaWcO9QYcrIzsxB-rM9iqOJjQ/s320/0728221913.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><u><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Where to eat <i>and</i> shop
for dinner</span></u><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">I really like going to the public produce markets in
Florence and the two main ones <i>in centro</i> are the Mercato di
San Lorenzo (by the station; it is the best-known) and the <b>Mercato
Sant'Ambrogio; </b>this last one is where I did do my shopping. It is
east of Santa Croce -- and has fantastic cheese, sliced meats, veggies,
etc. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">The San Lorenzo produce market -- the main market -- is
now a wonderful place to dine and shop. You have to wade through the outdoor
flea market surrounding the market to reach it but it's worth it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><u style="background-color: transparent;">Not just where to eat but
what</u></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">People rave about pasta
but here's a secret: Italian sandwiches are divine. Note: in the Old Country,
they are nothing like a sub or a hero. Freshly made and reflective of all the
Italian culinary acumen we've come to expect in pasta dishes, the Italian
sandwich you can buy at a bar is something not to miss. <b>Antico Noe</b> is
one of the best places for sandwiches, and not only because it is literally
tucked inside a medieval arch a half-mile from Piazza Santa Croce (with a view
of a medieval tower I once lived atop, but that's neither here nor there).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Other highlights:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Crostini -- as an
appetizer. In the event these are new to you: little toasted slices of bread
with toppings, including chicken pate, freshly-chopped tomatoes, mushrooms,
etc.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Prosciutto crudo -- I
believe it's part of Italy's culinary patrimony and I am not joking. Salty,
silky, delicious. I don't care if you're a vegetarian -- my Italian friends
certainly didn't when I pretended to be one in college and they kept urging me
to eat prosciutto!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Cinghiale -- Wild boar.
It's used often as the main ingredient of an amazing pasta dish that I suggest
you order: <b>pappardelle al cinghiale</b>. It's available everywhere!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Porcini mushrooms -- if
they are in season<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Fiori di zucca (zucchini
flowers) -- fried or stuff<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Italian pastries -- Forget
gelato. The real treats in Italy are pastries. Look for bars that say
'produzione propria' (that means they make their own pastries) or head to
a <b><i>pasticceria</i></b>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">(Also grab a chocolate bar at the <i>supermercato/alimentari</i> if it has whole <i>nocciole</i> in it -- the big nut at the center of the <i>baci</i> candies. Why have one nocciola when you can have an entire chocolate bar full of them?)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><u><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Where to walk...</span></u><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">In addition to
"everywhere," I also recommend walking to the other side of the river
-- often. From there, as I've mentioned, you can walk to Forte Belvedere,
Piazzale Michelangelo and the Bardini gardens.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Indeed some of the nicest <b>walks</b> are in
the area around <b>San </b></span><b><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #494949; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none; padding: 0in;">Niccol</span></b><b><span style="color: #494949; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">ò</span></b><span style="color: #222222; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"> (the other side of
the river) because they allow you to get outside the walls of the city and go
up into the hills. One place you could try walking to is <b>Forte
Belvedere</b>.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><u><span style="color: #222222; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Where to have a coffee and step onto a page of <i>A
Room With A View</i>:</span></u></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">There
are old-school caffes that make your morning coffee feel royal and four of them are on
Piazza della Repubblica, of which <b>Caffe Gilli</b> is probably the best
(coffee/pastries/aperitivo etc); also the Rivoire on Piazza della Signoria will
make you feel as though you're a wealthy landowner.</span><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><u><span style="color: #222222; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Where to drink wine</span></u><span style="color: #222222; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222;">Everywhere! That's one of the things that makes Italian
coffee bars special -- you can order a caffe latte in the morning and un
bicchiere di vino rosso in the evening!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222;">But I will give one recommendation of a place to drink:
Rose's on Via del Parione; it's on one of the more beautiful streets in the
center city. Drink outside at one of the tiny tables where you can watch fancy
Florentines walk and bike by.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222;">Look for a place called <b>'enoteca'</b> to sample some good wine. I also love the hole-in-the wall (literally) kiosks where you stand on the street at a counter and order a glass of wine and maybe a sandwich.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><u><span style="color: #222222; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Pastries</span></u><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">You'll find an entry for gelato below but as I
mentioned, I think <i>paste</i> or <i>pasticcini</i> [pastries]
are the unsung sweets of Italian cities (unsung, I should say, by Americans.
Italians know). And really, by now, you should know my favorite: <b>la
ciambellina</b> (looks like a donut if a donut was baked in God's kitchen).
Also good: un bombolone (similar but without the hole and typically filled
with <i>crema</i>). <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><u><span style="color: #222222; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Gelato</span></u></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Vivoli (Via Isola delle Stinche) around the corner from
our old apartment is very popular and also very good but so is Festival del
Gelato right off of Piazza della Repubblica (down the block from the Duomo).
Also good (and popular): Gelateria Carraia and Gelateria Santa Trinita (both
are stationed on the other side of two consecutive bridges across the River,
Oltrarno side).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><u><span style="color: #222222; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Souvenirs</span></u></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">I still buy souvenirs and so should you! I favor paper
goods because reading in Italian is my passion (and paper was an ancient
Florentine art) so my suitcase is always loaded down with novels and magazines
but the category also includes notepads, calendars and the like, which would
appeal to anyone.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222;">I find some of the best souvenirs can be had at the big
bookstore on Piazza della Repubblica: </span><b style="color: #222222;">Libreria Edison</b><span style="color: #222222;"> (there
are also lots of kiosks right in front of the bookstore that may have something
you like). In addition, I highly recommending visiting the <b>Bialetti</b> store for
the classic Italian Moka coffee pot (and coffee cups and other accessories).</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222;">Lastly, I know some of you out there are real foodies
so I recommend checking out a website published by a local Florentine food
writer who knows her stuff (and has Catholic interests -- hugely into sushi,
etc.):</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/37197361/8684172714348123467"><span style="color: blue;">https://www.ioamofirenze.it/</span></a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222;">She recently published a guide on her blog to choosing
a restaurant in Florence:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/37197361/8684172714348123467"><span style="color: blue;">https://www.ioamofirenze.it/mi-consigli-un-ristorante/</span></a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222;">Note, it's in Italian but all the addresses you see
everywhere (on maps, for hotels, etc) are in Italian anyway and the names of
restaurants are in Italian on the sides of buildings so if you really want to
go somewhere, you'll figure it out. I suggest choosing something from her guide under the
category 'Trattorie tipiche' ('local, traditional eateries'), with the name of
the restaurant in bold at the start of each entry (then Google the name of the
restaurant and figure out where it is). She also has a heading for fine dining
(in English) and if you have the euros, go for it!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: #222222; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Buonviaggio!</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222;">-30-</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://ciambellina.blogspot.com/</div>Ciambellinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00566775731919584081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37197361.post-61167487209239283942023-07-05T21:57:00.004-04:002023-07-06T08:36:06.503-04:00A day in the life of this American Man at age 10<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXFSv1j39WOXKe6jMZALc3CYJBxuQ7DMMIaJiWXRSjye6JfycS2q6JkHuMIJRkP1ATEIstCIN-zkh_sHQ_5VLPsb7weegzdbhZymOvomItXyz4aKjAzqzhys_EG2q4owFYU02MFgxA7jPgwJ9BdTBSOpGjabSu1B052YnLL31F3-sKze5-IcS3mg/s4160/0606231641d.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXFSv1j39WOXKe6jMZALc3CYJBxuQ7DMMIaJiWXRSjye6JfycS2q6JkHuMIJRkP1ATEIstCIN-zkh_sHQ_5VLPsb7weegzdbhZymOvomItXyz4aKjAzqzhys_EG2q4owFYU02MFgxA7jPgwJ9BdTBSOpGjabSu1B052YnLL31F3-sKze5-IcS3mg/s320/0606231641d.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>There is a seminal profile, well-known
in literary journalism circles, about a 10-year-old boy and his world.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">Published in <i>Esquire</i> in 1992, <b>"The
American Man at Age 10," by Susan Orlean</b>, twisted the notion of a
journalistic portrait and more importantly foregrounded how 10-year-old boys
think. (Link below).<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/37197361/6116748720923928394"><span style="color: blue;">https://classic.esquire.com/article/1992/12/1/the-american-man-at-age-ten</span></a><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">I have so much to say about one
particular 10-year-old boy -- but not much time to say it because he will soon
be <b>11! Yep -- double hockey sticks</b>.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">In this past year -- his final before
middle school -- I made a particular effort to jot down moments that reflected
our routine and his state of mind.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">How he spoons with our dog, Caramel,
every morning before school (as you might with your college boyfriend). How he
weaves in and out of the dotted lines on the bike trail in our town -- he reads
them as an invitation to zig zag. Do you?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">I took note of a certain Sunday evening
-- a perfect one, by my standards -- where we biked to a nearby restaurant for
dinner, then watched the Mets game, followed by our ritual Harry Potter
reading. That night, while I read Harry's adventures aloud, Leo
looked up <b>curse words</b> in my Italian dictionary.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">So what does the American man, age 10,
think about? Pepperoni pizza.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">Fifth grade was full of special
activities to mark the final year of elementary school -- including a whopper
of a field trip: a visit to Lake Compounce, an amusement park in Connecticut.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">Except it got canceled. So to make up
for it, the school arranged a pizza party for the 5th graders. And my
American man, age 10, intoned, "I hope they have peperoni pizza.
They <i>better</i> have it."<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">Not that Leo is only focused on the
mundane -- far from it! He's a dedicated reader of <b><i>The Week Junior</i></b> (as
I call it, "the best magazine you've never read" -- because you're not 10)
and regular peruser of the front page of <i>The New York Times </i>(especially
on the days something ghastly has happened and I am trying to confiscate the
paper but on the sly).<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">Over Memorial Day Weekend, Leo
and I were talking about American presidents as we walked to the beach, and
when the conversation turned to <b>Pres. Obama </b>(an important figure to him for many reasons, not least of which: he was born when Obama was president), I said offhand that he
was such a nice person. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">To which Leo, somewhat dismissively,
replied, “Of course! <b>You have to be nice to be President.”</b><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Whoa, stop the presses. This is a missive from the
“other side” that stuns me. The other side being childhood (my side,
regrettably, broken-down adulthood).<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">I thought: Does he know what he said? Is that really how he
sees the world? That a qualification for an important job such as President --
or maybe specifically for the job of President, not just any important job --
is you have to be nice. Age 35 or above, no criminal record, lots of stamina,
oh and you have to be nice. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">A child’s perspective on the world. One more reason
children are superior to adults.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">I check on him while he walks Caramel down the block, and
peering down the sidewalk, I see he's a tiny figure in determined motion with a
bobbing white blur next to him. Something about <b>their frenetic, untamed
movement</b> tells me childhood can still be Paradise Island.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Similarly, when he bikes, he is unwittingly trying to break
my heart out of cuteness. With his still petite size, shaggy hair and
ubiquitous grin, he forever reminds me of Elmo from "Sesame Street"
when he's on two wheels. Perhaps it's the delight he feels that becomes like a
current, emanating toward me?</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">(We biked twice to school in May, a goal I'd set years ago,
and it turned the morning drop-off into a magical errand for this mama).</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">(He also ran a 5K this year -- not his first!)</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">He still lobs <b>a lot of questions</b> my way -- and when they
stop, a part of me will die. In the past year, quite often, these questions
consisted of car choices. Specifically, "Mommy! Would you rather have an
MG or a Triumph?"</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Perhaps because for Christmas last year, my American man,
age 10, received a book called, "Classic Car: The Definitive Visual
History," and I swear to you he spent more time flipping through this book
than he spent moving the joy stick on his little Gameboy (the particular art of
the coffee table book can take a lot of credit).</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">(He also asked me one day if I would prefer being a dog
rather than a human. I had to tell him that I think being human has the edge).</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">What else does he like? Well, he likes to fish. In fact, in
the spring, <span style="background: white; color: #222222;">he and his pal,
Nicolas, went fishing in the woods behind his school. As they traversed the
packed, after-school playground with their rods, they were followed by a small
army of curious onlookers, all of whom had opinions about what to do fishing
(use the bobber, no don’t use the bobber, get a pack of worms, no, no worms).</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: transparent;">Oh and he reads. A lot. Of the many books he's read so far
this year, I will brag about</span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #222222;"> THE
ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER, which I’m thrilled to say we bought at the Mark Twain
House in Hartford.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">He's also begun reading collections of
Calvin and Hobbes comic strips.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Leo <b>loves baseball</b> and hates the Houston
Astros because they cheated.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">He still likes chit-chatting, with his mother, though he
might not admit it -- though he would enjoy teasing me about the verb
'chit-chatting,' which he would probably pronounce with the exaggerated Brooklyn accent he's learned from me when I am mimicking my mother (he does a good impression of Pat, too).</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">He likes staying up late ("Mommy! I've got a question
for you! What's the latest you've ever stayed up?" That was Wednesday
morning's question).</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">He likes <i>New Yorker</i> cartoons, pancakes, oreos and hot cocoa even when it's hot outside. He enjoys collecting Pokemon cards and baseball cards, plus he likes TV! Shows like "The Adventures of Gumball" and "Scooby Doo" and revamped versions of Looney Tunes.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">And I hope he likes being 11.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">-30-</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://ciambellina.blogspot.com/</div>Ciambellinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00566775731919584081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37197361.post-68503101787547918362023-06-04T15:43:00.003-04:002023-06-10T06:38:15.425-04:00Stepping Stones Reveal a Path into Italy's Dark History -- for PBS site<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtGjY9zT35gO3hEa6SHqOH3CbGVoExqwtO46QwRUZor0KTRwnC8ZNrBPf3POvgvgbci5lGRXlbNhF0Q9dY7dyPRdgoPhpke5CethqHh_yKdq_sVhnBGRyGqF2eizxcNcbUIHSf_UXPVLnaz4kyXPSNBdQteWSwLxaAPxiLO_hHBNmfKZCu28E/s3511/0724221733%20--%20stepping%20stone.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="3511" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtGjY9zT35gO3hEa6SHqOH3CbGVoExqwtO46QwRUZor0KTRwnC8ZNrBPf3POvgvgbci5lGRXlbNhF0Q9dY7dyPRdgoPhpke5CethqHh_yKdq_sVhnBGRyGqF2eizxcNcbUIHSf_UXPVLnaz4kyXPSNBdQteWSwLxaAPxiLO_hHBNmfKZCu28E/s320/0724221733%20--%20stepping%20stone.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Writing stories culled from your travels is a dream assignment. I rarely get paid to do it! But in this case I did, and what's more, the topic is tied to the work I do as a literary translator.</p><p>For the <b>PBS website, <a href="https://www.nextavenue.org/stepping-stones-reveal-italys-dark-history/" target="_blank">Next Avenue</a></b>, I wrote about tiny public memorials to victims of the Holocaust and other targets of the Nazi-Fascist forces. These memorials are copper-plated cobblestones embedded in the streets of Italy, Germany and other countries. I learned about the stepping stones while researching Italian women writers -- and others -- who have borne witness to the Holocaust.</p><p>And last summer while I was in Italy, I was able to visit some of these stones in Rome, Milan and Florence. </p><p>The stones in some ways are a paradox: tiny but powerful, open to the public at all hours for free but especially poignant when you're able to do some additional research. Under foot -- which some object to -- but also in the way, in your face, in a way that supporters like. You can't avoid this historical moment -- it's right under your foot.</p><p>You can read the piece here:</p><p><a href="https://www.nextavenue.org/stepping-stones-reveal-italys-dark-history/">https://www.nextavenue.org/stepping-stones-reveal-italys-dark-history/</a></p><p><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://ciambellina.blogspot.com/</div>Ciambellinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00566775731919584081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37197361.post-9207601101670227992023-04-26T21:44:00.001-04:002023-04-26T21:44:48.540-04:00Leo's Coronavirus Journal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUR_Cbj_rRL6WlfxkbdjAlSCALPelBMRfGGHjmMKV-5xuq6O1dD9jNq0V1Ij98b1WbLEFbhsJxGNRoEQgXxKBjPhHOQuVmtbrAK24kjqL6JFtf4sIiujIYiusFwTf0gR2sxOOc04r-oo3RlawoQzPMMIH_Ty0NdM2Y00D-d8sz2WO_UwVg4Ck/s4160/1212201202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUR_Cbj_rRL6WlfxkbdjAlSCALPelBMRfGGHjmMKV-5xuq6O1dD9jNq0V1Ij98b1WbLEFbhsJxGNRoEQgXxKBjPhHOQuVmtbrAK24kjqL6JFtf4sIiujIYiusFwTf0gR2sxOOc04r-oo3RlawoQzPMMIH_Ty0NdM2Y00D-d8sz2WO_UwVg4Ck/s320/1212201202.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;">Well, it's not really his Coronavirus Journal -- it's an excerpt of my own journal that features pithy comments from Leo.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">May
12, 2020</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Leo
is learning about poetry this week and will even have to write two poems. Out
for a walk, we’re discussing the types of poems he’s studying and suddenly he
says, “What kind of poem is the one by <b>Sean O’Casey?</b> Where he says, ‘An I assed
meself, what is the stars?’”</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">THIS
REALLY HAPPENED.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">It shows he’s reading the walls of our house since that's where we have the
famous poster about Irish writers, which features 12 quotations (including the one from O'Casey). But still! My
7-year-old American son said the name ‘Sean O’Casey.’</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">We
then went back to my parents' house to study their version of the poster. Truth: as
often as I looked at the poster, I never actually studied the rhymes in the
quotations! Never studied the meter! And there we were counting syllables in a
poem by Sean O’Casey. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">LITERATURE IS REAL. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">And...</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">WE ARE ALL POETRY PEOPLE when we
start out reading.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">August 9, 2020</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Leo picks up a long, curved stick, and says, “This could be
a good steering wheel for animals.”</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Nov 2. 2020</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Leo: “Your brain is like a library.”</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Nov. 3, 2020</span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Leo and I talk a lot about fur. What’s lined with fur. Like
sweatpants and hoodies. <b>When he calls something “super furry,” my brain becomes
cozy.</b> I yearn for all things furry. And I’m thankful for this lovely little boy who makes lovely little observations.</span> </p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://ciambellina.blogspot.com/</div>Ciambellinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00566775731919584081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37197361.post-24910721297349928702023-04-12T06:23:00.000-04:002023-04-12T06:23:01.027-04:00What I'm reading? Often Modiano<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrR8H9q9VHkG-tQ1qgTEz2DOwDqexkOHLSi9ad1FXTfcZVZEf-I-w38X_WPtDwjVwtHxtdSkojZTQPPMYgT2CJyz_2rln_alquRXkzJZBODmMRS9NeqcqUFSlMsMgflpcd9JZYLdQJqeG4MQ_zn6MROtsVoYjrMmbaHLdOSaC7I1agz1QLNXk/s933/Modiano%200300198051.01.S001.LXXXXXXX.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrR8H9q9VHkG-tQ1qgTEz2DOwDqexkOHLSi9ad1FXTfcZVZEf-I-w38X_WPtDwjVwtHxtdSkojZTQPPMYgT2CJyz_2rln_alquRXkzJZBODmMRS9NeqcqUFSlMsMgflpcd9JZYLdQJqeG4MQ_zn6MROtsVoYjrMmbaHLdOSaC7I1agz1QLNXk/s320/Modiano%200300198051.01.S001.LXXXXXXX.jpg" width="206" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Yep, I read a lot of <b>Patrick Modiano</b> -- thank God he is so prolific!</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">So I figured why not review his latest work from Yale University Press?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">It's not his best, as I say in this review below for <b>Cleaver Magazine</b>, a lit mag based in Philadelphia and run by some fellow Bennington Writing Seminar alums, but you won't regret reading it (and in the review I tell you which books to seek out, including the title in the picture).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Here's a link to the full review:</span></p><p><a href="https://www.cleavermagazine.com/scene-of-the-crime-a-novel-by-patrick-modianom-reviewed-by-jeanne-bonner/"><span style="font-family: inherit;">https://www.cleavermagazine.com/scene-of-the-crime-a-novel-by-patrick-modianom-reviewed-by-jeanne-bonner/</span></a></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I mention in the review, the action in <i><b>Scene of the Crime</b></i> revolves around a character <span style="background-color: white; color: #474747;">called Jean Bosmans who stumbles upon a series of coincidences involving his childhood home and a group of shady individuals who are alarmingly interested in his past.</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #474747; margin: 0px 0px 1em; overflow-wrap: break-word;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The plot is par for the course for this French Nobel Laureate who has dedicated his literary career to exhuming the ghosts of wartime Paris through semi-autobiographical fiction.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #474747; margin: 0px 0px 1em; overflow-wrap: break-word;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The plot is also beside the point—and in some ways, I love that.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #474747; margin: 0px 0px 1em; overflow-wrap: break-word;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nearly all of Modiano’s works touch on memory and childhood, as the author pieces together fictionalized episodes with his father, a shadowy figure who was on the run during World War II because of his Jewish heritage and willing to get his hands dirty to stay free. Born in 1945, Modiano has trained his gaze permanently on the war years that immediately preceded his birth, and the post-war years that are often referred to as the Thirty Glorious Years. As Alice Kaplan noted in a 2017 article for the <em style="overflow-wrap: break-word;">Paris Review</em>, Modiano likes to say he <b>“is a child of the war.”</b> She quotes him as saying: “Faced with the silence of our parents we worked it all out as if we had lived it ourselves.”</span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #474747; margin: 0px 0px 1em; overflow-wrap: break-word;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Modiano has been accused of writing the same book over and over. Many writers have been the subject of such an accusation and it’s probably true, but few are as magnanimous about it. Indeed, Modiano has admitted it during interviews, perhaps because he doesn’t see it as an insult or a problem.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #474747; margin: 0px 0px 1em; overflow-wrap: break-word;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Similarly, I enjoy reading his work because I'm always hoping he will add to the portrait he's been building of his father. And of course he always does. Sometimes more satisfactorily, sometimes less so.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #474747; margin: 0px 0px 1em; overflow-wrap: break-word;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But he's sifting through the wreckage of memories, and using fiction to uncover something that's even truer than fact.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #474747; margin: 0px 0px 1em; overflow-wrap: break-word;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I enjoy Modiano so much that I've begun reading one of his books <b>in French</b> -- desperately relying on knowledge I stored up for the most part back in Junior High School! I keep the English translation in my lap and refer to it every other sentence -- what passes for fun in my world.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #474747; margin: 0px 0px 1em; overflow-wrap: break-word;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">-30-</span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://ciambellina.blogspot.com/</div>Ciambellinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00566775731919584081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37197361.post-84921216009111697132023-03-20T05:09:00.005-04:002023-12-10T06:12:24.658-05:00Coronavirus Journal, three years later<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrsJj7BHTZYqj-k0UaCp1aq-E24C42z6hV8veQN-Xvva-dENpWOfIGG-5AMXa0lEn3JY4m687icK-9xccuOscm95nEWOBZgt_l07u14yU6ZLlPlUAq18SWHY9KETOInHK6N7iKC1O-Fxeho6IHznrspUecx5JD-fE4WH9pgKEKYmNNuSriFc4/s2048/0304210654.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: times;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrsJj7BHTZYqj-k0UaCp1aq-E24C42z6hV8veQN-Xvva-dENpWOfIGG-5AMXa0lEn3JY4m687icK-9xccuOscm95nEWOBZgt_l07u14yU6ZLlPlUAq18SWHY9KETOInHK6N7iKC1O-Fxeho6IHznrspUecx5JD-fE4WH9pgKEKYmNNuSriFc4/s320/0304210654.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-family: times;">A publisher put out a call a while back for <b>Coronavirus diary entries</b> and I happily obliged since, of course, I'd been writing in my journal during those initial dark, confused days. I've heard nothing from the publication so I am publishing the entries here. In our particular corner of the world -- by which I mean, the Bonner sisters and their families -- we were simultaneously handling the initial phase of my father's decline. It feels individual and unique and yet I have the sensation so many of us were juggling two problems -- two pandemics, as it were. The wider emergency of Covid taking over the planet, and the personal imprint of a local tragedy, complicated by the restrictions and the terror of those early pandemic days.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: times;">March 25, 2020</span></b></p><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><div><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Leo yesterday had a Zoom meeting with his teacher. The same Zoom software I am using to teach my class at Wesleyan, except it’s not actually <i>at</i> Wesleyan anymore.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">He’s above average in reading and he likes Math a lot so perhaps we are lucky in some ways because I don’t fear he will miss out on as much.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Nonetheless, a part of me grieves that he’s been robbed of the fundamental social nature of school, particularly as an only child.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Yet I am always of two minds. I mean, quite literally always -- before coronavirus and probably since I was born. (Or) I think of it as an occupational hazard as a journalist.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">He should be in school, but in my home school, he can rock in his chair or even slump (for a while at least). He can stand up to do math problems, and he can walk around the computer room on the third floor while he explains fables to me. Oh, and we have gym every day, multiple times a day.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">And yet – the other mind weighing in again – he has not played with a friend in a week.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p><div><b style="font-size: 12pt;">March 27, 2020</b></div><div><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><p style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">My coronavirus diary walks side by side with my Daddy-Is-Sick journal. I spoke with him yesterday and it was not the same person I knew. It was like talking to a hybrid of Mommy and an exhausted Daddy. He kept repeating certain key details of his fluid transfusion – that it took four-and-a-half hours hours, for example. He told me there are good days and bad, and the bad ones are when he wants to pull the blanket over his head. What was yesterday, I asked? A pull-the-blanket-over-your-head kind of day.</span></p></span></div></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span></span></p><a name='more'></a><b style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><b style="font-size: 12pt;">March 28, 2020</b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Yesterday I edited all day for CNN, and it being Friday, Mike, of course, worked his normal schedule and so honestly, we didn’t really home school Leo at all. I mean, sure, he read most of the day, and since the weather was Spring-like and gorgeous, I joined him on the porch (where we’ve now moved a bench!). He did a grand total of one work sheet about Math, and zero other work sheets. I gave him no assignments since I was consumed with editing stories about coronavirus (every story I edited yesterday was about coronavirus, and I suppose I edited 10 to 15 stories).<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Is that OK? Should I make up for it today, a Saturday? Christ, if I know. The days all run together, don’t they?<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">This will be a journal of clichés, this Coronavirus Journal. But that won’t mean the words aren’t sincere or the emotions keenly felt. <b>It’s just everything we might have feared about stopping our lives and hiding inside is true. We’ve seen the Zombie Apocalypse and now we’re living it.</b> OK, fair enough no zombies roaming around West Hartford but since I shrink from anyone whose path I cross while walking or jogging, the people I see might as well be zombies! I am treating them as such.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">But let’s take a trip to the Silver Lining Room. I go there a lot, Coronavirus or not. I want to read or re-read classics this year, and something inspired me to take Dante off the shelf for the umpteenth time. So I began re-reading “Inferno” and hope to finish it in a few days (it can be slow-going when I toggle back and forth between the English and Italian editions). Appropriate, no? Dante, in this time of scorched Earth politics, and plague-like living. But, Lord does it show his hatred for the arrogant! Filippo Argenti didn’t stand a chance. Even Virgil encourages his enmity toward the former pol, now stuck in the muck in Hell, all because of his preening, me-centric, me-first attitude (it helps he was in the “wrong” political party, too).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p><div><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><b style="font-size: 12pt;">April 1, 2020</b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Raced down here to Avon yesterday, and OK fine I was doing 80 mph most of the way but still made it down in less than 3 hours. Left a little before 4 p.m. Drove over the Tappan Zee and through northern New Jersey during rush hour -- without the rush.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">I have to take Dad for an appointment today. Meanwhile at 5:30 this morning, I awake to a plea coming from the stairs. It’s Dad and he’s decided that, though it’s still dark, he wants to come up the stairs and sleep in his real bed, with Mommy.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">He has no strength. I can see his legs – once fat with muscle, now almost skeletal. There’s a touch of folly to it all, as if lack of sleep has made him crazy, and it can, so maybe it did. He’s still sleeping on the couch most nights, even though there is now a hospital bed. That’s not a good longterm solution.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><b>The Daddy-Is-Sick Journal within the Coronavirus Journal.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">My students meanwhile are really responding to the Coronavirus Journal on the Moodle. I am trying to reply to each entry and some other students are also replying, and wow, it’s like we somehow have created way more community just via the online forum. It’s so obvious and clichéd but I would never have proposed something like this had we not taken the class online because of the pandemic. I felt it was incumbent upon me to come up with some computer-learning tricks for the class so I took a second look at Moodle.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">The power of words, the power of sharing thoughts, of admitting vulnerabilities. It’s like they were hungering for it. Am I reading too much into it? Almost no one is posting some brief, phoned-it-in entry.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"></span></p></span></span></div></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><b>April 4, 2020</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">In Avon</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><i>Do not go gently into that dark night</i>. I think about that line of verse over and over. And I imbue with great meaning the fact that about a year ago, I said to Daddy off-hand, “I imagine you’re going to be one of these people who ‘do not go gently into that dark night.’” And he pulled out his 50<sup>th</sup> anniversary graduation booklet, something he had himself produced for his class, and the [Dylan Thomas] epigraph was none other than ‘Do not go gently into that dark night.’<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">When I was there the other night, I looked in one of the full-length mirrors that are everywhere in their house and nowhere in mine, and I thought, <i>I’ve gained weight</i>. And then I thought, if only Daddy would comment on my gaining weight. If only he would antagonize me, ask me about my career, zero in on some flaw of Leo’s that triggers my existential dread … if only he could be well enough to act like a jerk.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><b>April 6, 2020</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">The doctor says if Daddy’s wound doesn’t heal, he’ll lose part of his leg.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">If I don’t write down the sentence like that, it will never be recorded. No way to embellish -- no point either. Yet writing it down does nothing to dent its awesome power, its raw awfulness. The pure absurdity of it. When does that ever happen?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">It’s the opposite of Larkin talking about death – this is one thing that WILL happen, death that is.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><b style="font-size: 12pt;"></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">But amputation?<o:p></o:p></span></p><div><b style="font-size: 12pt;">April 8, 2020</b></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The moon was enormous last night, and we went out in the fields to gaze at it. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">But so many things feel off.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">One small pleasure? Saying (or really thinking) the word apocalypse. A-poc-a-lypse. 'Apocalyptic' is even better. Not only because the bread aisle is barren, but also because the one intent on not going gently into that dark night seems poised to do just that, nestled under an avalanche of blankets on the couch in the living room where he remains day and night.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><b style="font-size: 12pt;">April 10, 2020</b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">I was in touch with Andrea Acciai in Florence on Facebook about when the coronavirus lockdown will end in Italy and he says everyone is very anxious and he fears that without a vaccine or a cure, everyone will be forced to live apart and with masks for a very long time (something akin to death in Italy, let's be honest).</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">(Irene, for her part, says they are "seppelliti in casa" -- buried inside of their homes).</span></p><div><b style="font-size: 12pt;">April 11, 2020</b></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Found on Twitter ... The first line of <b><i>The Great Gatsby</i></b> in Italian:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">"Negli anni </span><span style="background-color: white;">più vulnerabili della giovinezza, mio padre mi diede un consiglio che non mi </span><span style="background-color: white;">è </span><span style="background-color: white;">più uscito di mente. 'Quando ti viene voglia di criticare qualcuno,' mi disse, 'ricordati che non tutti a questo mondo hanno avuto i vantaggi che hai avuto tu</span><span face=""Segoe UI", sans-serif" style="background-color: #f5f8fa; color: #14171a; font-size: 15.3333px;">.'"</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span face=""Segoe UI", sans-serif" style="background-color: #f5f8fa; color: #14171a; font-size: 15.3333px;">(From the Church of Small Things)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><b style="font-size: 12pt;">April 15, 2020</b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 16.96px; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><i>In Avon</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Yesterday Leo wandered by himself through my father’s garden. It’s an o</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">de to Poppy in a second grader's steps. One of the few silver linings of bringing him down the Shore while Daddy is sick, if we can't go to the beach: he likes to walk around the backyard. He likes to hide under the trellis or behind a bush. He likes to climb my father's trees. He likes to visit all the little "stations" my father has built into the garden.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 16.96px; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><b style="font-size: 12pt;"></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">They commune with each other even though they are not together and maybe don’t know each other the way I would have liked.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><b style="font-size: 12pt;">April 22, 2020</b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 16.96px;">We woke up today and cut out paper hearts to send to friends. Then we blew bubbles and chased each other around the yard.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 16.96px;">Leo's questions never stop. He asks, "</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 16.96px; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">If you could have any car in the world, what would it be?" And: "If you could live in any house in the world, what would it be like?"<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 16.96px; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Then he asks, "If you could be any imaginary creature, what would it be?" He suggests mermaid, knowing I love to swim. Yep, I say. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 16.96px; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Next up: "If you had to have only one eye or one ear, which would you choose?" <b>I went with only one ear.</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Leo goes outside and within a few minutes hatches a new game. Not to say he goes outside voluntarily. For some reason, it is still a struggle. And yet I watch him outside with magical eyes. Yesterday we blew bubbles, and he distributed points based on whether it was a double bubble or a triple bubble. We even had a few quad-bubbles and penta-bubbles.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 16.96px; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Yesterday he also set traps for the squirrels. By which I mean he located holes in the yard and covered them with sticks and flowers that he hoped would attract the squirrels, who will then, if all goes according to plan, fall into the holes. Except they are too shallow for them squirrels to truly fall into – but I did not tell him that. I sometimes let him think what he wants to think. Life will tell him if his supposition is right.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 16.96px; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">A few days before, we stood under the cherry tree, which is in bloom, and he proposed that we try to walk through the branches without touching any flowers. Meanwhile, the tiny little petals rain down upon us.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 16.96px; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">We play soccer now a lot – he’s quite good. He gives me lessons at 4:15 on Fridays. We also play basketball and have occasionally taken our tennis rackets to the back parking lot of the science museum.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 16.96px; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Yesterday Mike said, <b>“Every day is like a weekend now.”</b> And it’s true.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I have adjusted to almost zero free time/personal time/private time pretty well. I mean, I don’t shrink from my usual treats – granola bars, Mommy cookies, chocolate, writing, short bouts of exercise, wine – but still, all in all, I have accepted the quarantine for what it is. A weekend every day, but not one you’ve looked forward to per se, not one followed by a week of school days that afforded you a break from 24-hour parenting. Nope. But still, I do enjoy being with my Leo.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 16.96px; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">I had in fact thought earlier this year that school robbed me of time with Leo. That in truth, when he was at school, I had very little quality time with him. Best on best, five to six hours a day. Of which, an hour was devoted to playing after school with friends, and not with me; an hour of TV, not with me, etc.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 16.96px; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">It's not a problem anymore!</span></p><div><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 16.96px; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">-30-</span></div></span></div><p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://ciambellina.blogspot.com/</div>Ciambellinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00566775731919584081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37197361.post-35143943270676929752023-03-07T05:30:00.003-05:002023-03-14T23:00:31.219-04:00When I like to write<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitIQfpMMd_Gy3ZMLVrN7yiiJFBXZgQDHCH7mCzGM7DzAsuN02rP2MlOi2_JMKA4Dh00_J2tPW-cP3kT0g7KaQmsBg60svUkDQofzN1jIn0EBcXw3HU17dFs92g82VBiowT-LbAkhjru97dk9AdobSGK1-m38lzPXSvjVtsged-7daCyunWP3w/s1600/DSCN0987.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitIQfpMMd_Gy3ZMLVrN7yiiJFBXZgQDHCH7mCzGM7DzAsuN02rP2MlOi2_JMKA4Dh00_J2tPW-cP3kT0g7KaQmsBg60svUkDQofzN1jIn0EBcXw3HU17dFs92g82VBiowT-LbAkhjru97dk9AdobSGK1-m38lzPXSvjVtsged-7daCyunWP3w/s320/DSCN0987.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><i>I like to write in the morning after a fractured night’s sleep has left me feeling so emotionally fragile it feels like a form of grief. I’m overcome and on the verge of tears, and my brain suddenly alights on a thought, then 10 thoughts, then 100. The words quickly filling my mind need a space to live. Feelings I left festering under the surface emerge and demand to be heard. I’m running on adrenaline, and at my wit’s end, and too tired to be careful. What makes me ache, what tortures me, what I truly think comes pouring out. I confess that I feel as though I am in mourning at fall’s first warnings, when the sudden chill in the morning air is so jarring since until yesterday, there was nothing but heavy, humid air mugging my every breath. Or I whisper to the journal I keep in my car, “I think I’m losing my fingerprints.”</i><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I wrote this gush of words above after beginning a graduate writing program in my early 40s. I was finally attempting to fulfill my<b> third-grade teacher’s</b> prediction that I would be a writer when I grew up. Trying my hand at fiction for the first time, I had the zeal of a convert. I’d deferred my writing dreams (and my vague grad school plans) for so long, I never thought I’d be someone who lived to write. Then a series of unforeseen events – motherhood in my late 30s, among other things -- lead me to the magic door. I found the more I wrote, the more I wanted to write – like an itch you keep scratching or better yet, a lover you can’t stop kissing. If I showed up to write, I would write, then write a little more. Later after I’d taken a pause, a new thought might occur to me and I would race to my laptop to record it.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">In the early days of this writing frenzy, which began during my maternity leave, I convinced myself it was all tied to breastfeeding and post-pregnancy hormones. (My true religion is a combination of Catholic guilt and <b>jinx theory.</b>) Plus, writing felt magical, too good to be true. I feared it would all disappear once I ceased to nurse and my body went back to its old self.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">When this pessimist’s fantasy lifted, I found I wanted to write fairly often; some days, every spare minute. Not that every day produced the same kind of writing or quantity. Oh no.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">So while writing after a night of broken sleep unleashes in me highly emotional, highly unstructured thoughts, writing after I’ve had eight hours of solid slumber produces an excess of energy that converts my mind into a trampoline, and I find myself revising multiple pieces in one sitting, organizing notes for a future piece and gathering details on, say, a fellowship for writers. I’m full of wonder and confidence; I have something to prove and I want to fight – on the page.<s><o:p></o:p></s></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">(Note to young writers: <b>Sleep</b> is cool if it allows you to go wild in your writing).<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span></span></p><a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Philip Lopate says journal-keeping invites thought. I use my journal musings as a gauge for the topics that interest me, and some of my entries slide right into essays I wind up publishing. Most of them do not! But the practice primes my writing mind to collect details. Writing as regularly as I do, I’ve found paying attention to the odd juxtapositions of everyday life pays dividends. One night, I wrote<span style="background: white; color: black; mso-color-alt: windowtext;"> in my journal about soaping up my infant in the bathtub while softly singing the words to Neil Young’s song, “Only Love Will Break Your Heart.”</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">In other words, as William Stafford once advised, I welcome any thought that comes;<span style="background: white; color: black; mso-color-alt: windowtext;"> </span>I write down all kinds of little snippets because by doing so, I train my mind to keep supplying these oddities. In another moment,<span style="background: white; color: black; mso-color-alt: windowtext;"> I recorded this command: “Map my brain.” It’s a call for a decoder ring of sorts, or simply my secret instructions to an artist I have yet to find, one who can draw the ideas that paper the walls of my mind. Someone who can decipher the mosaic of thoughts, from the moment as a toddler that I poured the bottle of Prell shampoo on the floor upstairs, and my father swooped down to administer my punishment, to c</span>ertain lines from “It’s a Wonderful Life” <b>(“How would you like living in the nicest house in town?”)</b>, and<span style="background: white; color: black; mso-color-alt: windowtext;"> the insistent rhythm of that French song about an endless journey, whose melody cannot be evicted from my brain.</span><span style="background: white;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px; mso-color-alt: windowtext;">Jotting down these small moments has been my way of realizing I want to write memoir, above all else.</span><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">I’m thrilled to reflect on when I like to write because for so long, I didn’t write. I like to write because I’m haunted by the years when I wasn’t writing. <b>The years of idling</b>, when I didn’t know how to begin – or that I had to begin writing, if I wanted to live right.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">I’ve found I especially like to write in the stillness of the early morning on my laptop computer. When we lived in Atlanta, it sat on an unremarkable, unpainted bookshelf that had witnessed 1,000 remarkable writing moments. With darkness still hovering over westward-leaning Atlanta long after 7 a.m., I would light one small table lamp, and open my computer files to see where I wanted to go. I was all alone, and the silence was so thick, it was as if the house itself had nodded off.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">This way of writing first thing in the morning is still ideal for me. But I also like to write when I’m in the car, and a twister of passing buildings, pedestrians, road signs, music on the radio, an airplane overhead and the sounds of my toddler floating up from the backseat supply me with new connections, new thoughts. Those entries tend to gush with emotion because<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">i</span>f I’ve bothered to record a thought in the car diary, it’s an urgent one, often scrawled while the car is moving, and the handwriting attests to it. It’s a place to write down lines for stories I may never finish, like, “’I wouldn’t kill him yet,’” I say as I meet my mother at the front door.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">I like to write after an exercise workout has <b>jarred loose some thoughts</b> that had been hidden deep within my mind. New solutions announce themselves, sometimes to problems I hadn’t known existed. A new organization emerges for ideas that had been floating around uncategorized up to that point. Under an endorphin haze, I wrote one day about the sounds of Coltrane mixing like an overlay in my head with verses from Dr. Seuss’s “One Fish Two Fish.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">I write about the words my son has learned, and his pithy comments, like, “Your tongue is a slide for your food.”<span style="background: white; color: black;"> </span>I record little scraps of remembered conversation, like when he asked, <span style="background: white; color: black; mso-color-alt: windowtext;">“I good, Mommy? I good?”</span><span style="background: white;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Some days I don’t write … but I do have <b>1,043</b> files in my Dropbox. Journals (labeled by date), short stories (many dormant), notes for a novel, chapters of a memoir I’ve abandoned, to-do lists, poems, freelance story ideas, and so on etc. Too much? Maybe, but better than the years of idling.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">But there is no idle moment now, not when I can write.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Standing at the bookshelf I used for a desk in Atlanta, I would look back every now and again at the double-doors that led to the deck, and gaze through the transom windows. All I saw was trees. All I saw: the words in my head, the ones I want to move to the screen. All I saw: the pink morning sky framed by those tiny transom windows. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b>"</b>If I try to photograph it, it’s gone.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">"If I open the blinds on the doors beneath the slits of transom windows, it’s diluted.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">"If I wait too long to enjoy it, it’s dissipated.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">"I just have now, this moment.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">"Keep writing and turning around and writing. Over your shoulder the pink sky is there. It’s there. Now it’s gone."<o:p></o:p></span></p><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">-30-</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://ciambellina.blogspot.com/</div>Ciambellinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00566775731919584081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37197361.post-28781155173958071702023-03-02T06:06:00.001-05:002023-03-02T06:06:34.235-05:00Running very little very often<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi45_ii6rdf3YdAEvsPtrHRErfDpnaJfdeV7M8iQwhB9DAuFA-vTrZsX15AYHaCIWsviAE56LycFZWPpeelxSnnf0DrCG947OvrOwSxHSiE_MVVGDjcQoMv_FvIpLKXOdGqCiY_ggErR3ntdzr4T0M7jHoJlXju7GH2kPmG_sbbGi32pmIWB8U/s1600/10322.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi45_ii6rdf3YdAEvsPtrHRErfDpnaJfdeV7M8iQwhB9DAuFA-vTrZsX15AYHaCIWsviAE56LycFZWPpeelxSnnf0DrCG947OvrOwSxHSiE_MVVGDjcQoMv_FvIpLKXOdGqCiY_ggErR3ntdzr4T0M7jHoJlXju7GH2kPmG_sbbGi32pmIWB8U/w400-h300/10322.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">I have a photo of myself
and my son that became instantly beloved to me the moment I saw it.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">He’s on his bike and I’m
chasing after him, in a bid to keep up with him -- and keep an eye on him.
We’ve come to the Beltline, the rails-to-trails economic development project
that’s remaking Atlanta, where we once lived.<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">I’m dressed in tight jeans
and black sandals with hard wooden soles; my hands are gripping my pocketbook
and a cell phone. I’m not, in other words, dressed to run. But I am running
full-on -- and reveling in the moment.<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">We’re a blur in motion,
we’re laughing, we're alive; need I say more? The photo means more than
the plaque I received at a 5K race in my neighborhood after finishing second in
my age group.<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">As the mother of an
elementary school-aged boy, I probably run more now than ever before. <b>Running
isn’t something I do occasionally – it’s woven now, in small doses, into
my life.</b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">My go-to sport and
exercise regimen leans more toward lap swimming, and I love simply to walk. I
also sometimes bike and paddleboard. But running is so simple, so low on
equipment and preparation, that for me it’s like the exercise you pull out of
your back pocket as needed. In a new city? Go for a run to map the place out.
Can’t get to the gym? Run around the block a few times. Trapped in a cycle of
insomnia because you’ve moved cross-country to start a new life in Connecticut?
Run in circles behind your house, in the cool, green fields of a private school
on your new street. (For example).<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">I don't run great
distances. I don't even run not-so-great distances. I run very short distances.<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">But it doesn’t mean I’m
not serious about running. I am serious about keeping running a constant, if
not huge, part of my life. If for no other reason than it makes me
feel like I am six years old again, and being six has a lot to recommend for
itself.<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">Often when I’ve run over
the past five years, it’s behind my son’s bike, like the scene in the photo. I
have to keep up with him, and I relish a chance to be with him while also
exercising.<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">No, it’s not like training
for a 5K, or a half-marathon and it certainly isn’t elegant. But it’s running
in its pure form, which is to say how we first learned to run as children.
Their bodies start moving rapidly without any reason, without checking if they
have the right gear on, and in a few seconds, they are engulfed by the euphoria
running seems to singlehandedly bestow. <b>My son and his friends run because they
want to arrive at the next moment, at the next opportunity for joy</b>, at the next
post in life, as soon as possible. What better reason to run? So I copy them –
because I, too, want in on this surefire path to smiles and laughter and joy.<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">As for races, they’re
constantly being staged on a spontaneous basic. A few months ago, my son challenged
me to a series of races in the school fields behind our house. Each race was a
little bit longer – and one race was designated a “jogging-only” course. Do I
let him win? I often do but not before running flat-out my fastest (then easing
up). I mean, I am sprinting across that field like I am trying out for the
Olympics.<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">I began doing that five
years ago when my son turned five and his running sped up. He challenged me to
a race on the sidewalk in front of our lilac Victorian in Atlanta, and all of a
sudden, I was pouring on the power in a way I hadn’t in decades. I was back at
my Long Island elementary school, competing in the 50-yard dash near the end of
the school year, and I was joyfully passing classmates even while huffing and
puffing around the makeshift track.<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">I cannot say what my
neighbors might have thought, seeing me sprint across the sidewalk toward the
corner. I wasn’t play-jogging as many parents do. I was in it to win it. And it
felt glorious.<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">There have been so many
days like that since he was born. Days where the highlights come when I’m
getting some exercise with my son. I competed in gymnastics growing up and
exercise somewhat regularly, but I have never been a jock. Nonetheless
I’d always intuited, even if I didn’t fully exploit the notion, that exercise
can change our days, and our lives -- literally. Now I try to
work up a sweat when I can, including kicking the soccer ball around our small yard over
and over (it’s running, just with a ball). And I don’t care how I look or who
sees me or where I am when I begin running. With a son who runs at the drop of
a hat, it’s not hard to do.<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">Some of this shift
reflects the changes all parents have to make – and the underreported
transformation that parenthood conveys. <b>You get a do-over.</b> Looking down after
that first sprint with Leo, I suddenly thought, “I feel like a kid.” And it’s
all because now I have a kid. Parenthood does that to you. You become the
person you were when you were a child. You are given a chance to wipe the slate
clean. Got bad habits? Don’t worry -- you won’t have as much time to indulge
them. Never an early riser? You can be one now. Want to run around and burn off
the frustration of adulthood? You’ll have plenty of opportunities now.<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">I love it when my son runs
to retrieve something. Something he could have simply walked to get. My partner
will tease him, by saying under his breath, “Must run everywhere.” And I think,
“Shhhh!” I think, Please don’t let him realize the adult world ceased running
as a matter of course a long time ago -- because <b>the adult world sleepwalks
through life</b>. He aims toward adult life – it’s the natural trajectory of all
humans. But let <i>us</i> imitate him – at the very least by moving
our bodies often, without care.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">Children who are my son’s
age naturally belong to The United Republic of Running. No one is wearing
expensive workout tights. No one has sponsorships But they are comparing their
performances, contrasting the pros and the cons – and ready to race at any
time. No excuses like you hear from adults. One day, when his friend heard that
Leo and I raced, he challenged me to a race outside their school. Once again, I
went full-on, and he cackled the whole race because he couldn’t believe there
was a mom keeping pace with him (or openly acting so wacky) along that sidewalk.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">For serious runners, this
“baby-step” approach (quite literally) may gall. But it aims at a revolution:
Running, running often, out of pure joy, and staying alive.<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">
</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> -30-</o:p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://ciambellina.blogspot.com/</div>Ciambellinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00566775731919584081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37197361.post-56381639387162546712023-02-27T22:05:00.001-05:002023-02-27T22:05:00.181-05:00What if the Dodgers never left?<p>I've been thinking all year about the uncle I never met. Which means I have also been thinking about the Dodgers. The Brooklyn Dodgers, since he and my mother were big fans. And I stumbled upon this <b>Slate</b> podcast episode that imagines Brooklyn -- and a minor nearby city named Manhattan -- if in fact the Dodgers had stayed (at least until 2018):</p><p><a href="https://slate.com/culture/2018/05/what-if-the-dodgers-had-never-left-brooklyn.html">https://slate.com/culture/2018/05/what-if-the-dodgers-had-never-left-brooklyn.html</a></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://ciambellina.blogspot.com/</div>Ciambellinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00566775731919584081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37197361.post-41675191587380325252023-02-16T05:45:00.004-05:002023-02-16T05:45:38.921-05:00Hunger Mountain Translation Prize -- "Silvia" is now published!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx2CtgAzM8h7g_fUtkLEPvxsNub-o9ZjnMrY1bJ89dm6t7dUIVqRD7QungP5NBJPGP-uKZ-Yp2IqmxEL7k5Ol0e3MENc7eNAazlzL1rc7z-Bw6SMODrNfFGs1sRE011uLmbLQywjdlJ9-Nlv6swATvnq8kpjpA2iymm44y8nqlwxxq4o4YGIU/s789/ANDREMO%20cover%209788834607930_0_536_0_75.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="789" data-original-width="536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx2CtgAzM8h7g_fUtkLEPvxsNub-o9ZjnMrY1bJ89dm6t7dUIVqRD7QungP5NBJPGP-uKZ-Yp2IqmxEL7k5Ol0e3MENc7eNAazlzL1rc7z-Bw6SMODrNfFGs1sRE011uLmbLQywjdlJ9-Nlv6swATvnq8kpjpA2iymm44y8nqlwxxq4o4YGIU/s320/ANDREMO%20cover%209788834607930_0_536_0_75.jpg" width="217" /></a></div><p>The first short story connected with my <b>NEA grant</b>, indeed the first short story I ever translated by Edith Bruck -- it's now published!</p><p>Thanks to the Hunger Mountain Translation Prize, you can find the story, which is called "Silvia," at this link:</p><p><a href="https://hngrmtn.org/issues/hunger-mountain-27/translation/">https://hngrmtn.org/issues/hunger-mountain-27/translation/</a></p><p>My thanks to <b>Allison Grimaldi Donahue</b> who chose the story from the other contest entries and to Ms. Bruck for entrusting me with her work.</p><p>This story is about a young German boy who is the son of a high-ranking Nazi official. He finds a Jewish stowaway and brings her home to the horror of his proud Third Reich-worshipping mother. The best line? Tough to say but how about, "You always wanted a little girl."</p><p>I can only hope many people find their way to the story. Not only because I translated it but because it reminds us, to quote a line of verse from Bruck, that "once upon a time/there was Auschwitz."</p><p>-30-</p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://ciambellina.blogspot.com/</div>Ciambellinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00566775731919584081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37197361.post-56863183237676553412023-02-03T07:14:00.001-05:002023-02-03T07:14:00.201-05:00What I read after my father died<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9ycu0G00m1n7GD3Y47btVfOzHjnhcL6nCH0NrrH4BUicfxfASKW9JxEegTKXleXv21PEWtLHlpd0sQ37u7T4PSfgel0kAoBybenZVFRAcJNTbdFQ_0B_FqmvNBJ3ZSEZ7OPxo82tdTv4n4r6Nil7rANSrvcgoD-WPoax2jCkInEqf9_jrHX8/s4160/0124211358.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9ycu0G00m1n7GD3Y47btVfOzHjnhcL6nCH0NrrH4BUicfxfASKW9JxEegTKXleXv21PEWtLHlpd0sQ37u7T4PSfgel0kAoBybenZVFRAcJNTbdFQ_0B_FqmvNBJ3ZSEZ7OPxo82tdTv4n4r6Nil7rANSrvcgoD-WPoax2jCkInEqf9_jrHX8/s320/0124211358.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>That was my original title for the essay -- <b>what I read after my father died</b> -- and still the one that best reflects what inspired this remembrance, which I wrote about spending the past year reading and re-reading the books my father had accumulated over a lifetime:</p><p><a href="https://themillions.com/2023/01/the-books-that-made-my-father.html">https://themillions.com/2023/01/the-books-that-made-my-father.html</a></p><p>Grateful to <b>The Millions</b> for agreeing to publish an essay no one needs to read but which I most certainly needed to write.</p><p>More books to come (and truth be told, I still have to finish <i>Gulag Archipelago</i>. It makes for dense reading!).</p><p>I am grateful for the legacy my father left me -- a love of reading so intense it's like a person in my life.</p><p>-30-</p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://ciambellina.blogspot.com/</div>Ciambellinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00566775731919584081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37197361.post-69946134401709632982023-01-27T05:37:00.005-05:002023-01-27T05:37:59.311-05:00Edith Bruck on surviving Auschwitz<p><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: times;">This line alone says so much: </span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b>"Chi ha Auschwitz come coinquilino devastatore dentro di sé, scrivendone e parlandone non lo partorirà mai."</b></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: times;">It comes from Bruck's nonfictiom book, <i>Signora Auschwitz</i>, and it can be translated as follows:</span></span></p><p><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: times;">"Whoever has Auschwitz inside of her like a rampaging tenant will never get
rid of it by writing and talking about it."</span></span></p><p><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: times;">#Giornodellamemoria</span></span></p><p><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: times;">-30-</span></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://ciambellina.blogspot.com/</div>Ciambellinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00566775731919584081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37197361.post-10428708432155372612023-01-23T05:30:00.004-05:002023-01-23T06:07:57.213-05:00Before and after Auschwitz (Liana Millu) Jan. 27, 2023<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX6sbtA60SqOaUEBPDK0lLEC7n504SFDvDh8b45xEa_tKVoCrZjIm3IB5xH-vSTkBRvv6fsBjXV6U-GwqdAxJMCdVJBncy7tYLgdHmIVaaZI_1xUj0MzK8lZ5gB_wCh5vLD0xkxg/s499/Dopo+il+fumo+31Z6oR1Mc7L._SX306_BO1%252C204%252C203%252C200_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="308" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX6sbtA60SqOaUEBPDK0lLEC7n504SFDvDh8b45xEa_tKVoCrZjIm3IB5xH-vSTkBRvv6fsBjXV6U-GwqdAxJMCdVJBncy7tYLgdHmIVaaZI_1xUj0MzK8lZ5gB_wCh5vLD0xkxg/s320/Dopo+il+fumo+31Z6oR1Mc7L._SX306_BO1%252C204%252C203%252C200_.jpg" width="198" /></a></div><p>In writing a summary of the research I did during a short-term fellowship at the <b>New York Public Library</b> this year, I had to leave out some of the brilliant bits of information I uncovered because I think inhaled enough research for two or three or maybe even four summaries.</p><p>And yet they must be recorded and shared because they offer insight, in this case, into one of the greatest enigmas of the 20th century: the Holocaust. Thus I will share them here on my blog, which in fact began many years ago as my digital record of how I keep up my Italian so perhaps it's fitting.</p><p>I was at the Library to study the works of an Italian transnational writer whose work I've been translating. And as such, I consulted other works by women authors writing in Italian who survived the Holocaust.</p><p>One such writer was Liana Millu [1914-2005]. My old <b>Bennington prof, Lynne Sharon Schwartz</b>, translated her work <i>Smoke Over Birkenau</i>, which was one of the books I read at the Library.</p><p>Millu also published another book that hasn't been translated into English: <span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: IT;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dopo il fumo: Sono il n. A 5384 di Auschwitz Birkenau </i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">[you can translate the title as: "After the Smoke: I Was Prisoner No. A-5384 in Auschwitz Birkenau"]</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.</i></span></p><p><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: IT;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And in it she defines what it means to survive a concentration camp:</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">“Venne il funesto
1938 con le leggi razziali; poi la guerra, e con la guerra, uno spartiacque che
da solo determina un “prima” e un “poi”: venne Auschwitz.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">Translation (or one way to translate this sentence):</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">"The grim year 1938 arrived with the racial laws; then</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16px;"> the war, and with the war, a watershed moment that alone dictates a 'before' and an 'after': <b>then came Auschwitz</b>."</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><p><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: IT;">As I translate work by Italian transnational writer Edith Bruck (the purpose of my fellowship at the Library and the subject of my NEA fellowship in literature), I am galvanized despite the difficulty of placing work in translation in American journals or with American publishers. </span></p><p><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: IT;"><b>Because this testimony must be shared, disseminated and conserved for as long as humans roam the earth.</b></span></p><p><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: IT;">(I am posting this now for International Holocaust Remembrance Day, Jan. 27, 2023)</span></p><p><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: IT;">-30-</span></p><div><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: IT;"><br /></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://ciambellina.blogspot.com/</div>Ciambellinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00566775731919584081noreply@blogger.com0