The way to go

I'm only at the dentist a few minutes last February when the dental hygienist asks me if I do any winter sports.

I tell her that Leo and Mike went ice fishing. I wax for a moment about standing on the frozen-solid lake and the sensation of walking over a surface that's usually not solid, but she shakes her head. She's not about to wax about anything I am saying to her.

I assume she's going to dismiss outdoor winter sports or fishing in general or just the cold weather.

Instead, she says, "I wouldn't want to go that way. It makes me nervous."

She mentions dogs whom she's heard have broken through the ice on a lake, even when it's meant to be totally frozen.

Then she says it again: "That's not how I want to go."

She may be right about falling through the ice to a frigid, numb death. It's probably a slow descent through hell, if hell were a frozen wasteland (and it might be; see Dante).

But all I can think is, "There's no way I would want to go."

In her defense, some ways do sound positively grisly. Drowning to death. Falling off a cruise ship into the deep blue sea. Being killed or buried alive -- that's probably not fun or easy.

Yet still: I really can't name any way I want to go.

No, actually, I think I'd like to stay.

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Who loves fish the most? (from the Leo Journal)

Looking at one of the mammoth fish tanks at Butterfly, the Chinese restaurant on Farmington, Leo says, “Let’s count by hearts who loves fish the most.”

Mike: “OK, I guess for me, two hearts.”

Leo: “Yeah, for me about 1,000 hearts.”

Let’s count by hearts. As if ‘hearts’ were a currency or a unit of measurement. 

Also, although he’s a boy, he was so mercifully young when he said this that hearts hadn’t been segregated yet to the girls-only section of interests. 

While Mike lowballs it with “two hearts,” Leo, living high on the hog, goes for broke: 1,000 hearts. 

He must really like little fishies!

And we have a winner.

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Lost diary entry

A love letter to libraries masquerading as a news story (CNN)

Did you know librarians have worked as contact tracers during the pandemic? Me, neither. It's one of many wonderful things that librarians have done since the Covid crisis began, and I wrote about it for CNN.

Here's the article:

https://www.cnn.com/2021/06/13/us/coronavirus-libraries-pandemic/index.html

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Stealing Memories (for the Boston Globe)

I've been writing in my journal (and on the blog) a lot about my parents, and their declining health, and what we've lost by losing the simple ability to chit-chat. Who knew that chit-chat was at the heart of our relationship? Also the ability to make new memories.

Anyway, today I am writing about these things for the Boston Globe's Ideas section. The cracker-jack art department even made an amazing photo collage of three old photos I had photographed. You can see some of the collage in the screen shot I inserted here. The two color photos I found in my father's wallet. It felt like I was snooping around even though he was unable at the time to follow the nurse's instructions to take out his insurance card. We were out in the car last summer when I found them, waiting in the parking lot of a doctor's office. I might as well have found gold coins in there, given my reaction.

I think the piece might be behind a paywall but here's the link:

https://www.bostonglobe.com/2021/06/13/opinion/stealing-memories

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How I write regularly (Jeanne's tips)

I share with my writing students at Wesleyan a list of tips for those who want to write more often -- to keep writing as a regular practice. The students typically aren't undergrads, but part-time graduate students who have lives like the rest of us, and don't have the luxury of a daily cache of hours to dedicate to write.

And I thought these tips might be useful for folks as the summer approaches and some aspiring /former/could-be writers with children will have little people home more often (or even more often, given the remote pandemic schooling saga). You can write around little people -- shoot, you can write ABOUT little people -- but writing does require concentration and if your kid is like mine, he has a lifetime supply of questions written on a series of invisible post-it notes that he keeps pulling out of his pocket. So some tips might be handy.

(If you are an aspiring writer without children, the summer is a great time to try out some new writing habits because the world as a whole is a bit looser, and you'll probably have a vacation or a weekend getaway planned. Take a notebook on that ferry to Fire Island! Buy a diary or even a day planner and write "Vermont Journal" on the first page, then see what you're inspired to jot down.)

Note, this post is not about how to publish regularly or how to land a book contract or an agent.

Simply, how to find time to write, and how to appreciate the small writing opportunities that come your way.

OK, here goes.

First step. Do an inventory of your days and/or of a typical week. Where are there already pockets of time that you could use for writing? To my students, I might say, for example, you take your laundry to the laundromat. Could you write while you wait for your clothes to dry? Or maybe you take a child to sports practice. Could you carve out a few minutes to write on the sidelines, even if what you write is more akin to notes or lists? If these two examples don’t fit your life, that’s no problem – and beside the point. The point is, what time do you already have at your disposal that you can devote to writing without making any large changes in your schedule or your habits? That proverbial 'time to kill.' Kill it by writing!

Second step. Where are there moments in your day or your week when you could be writing but instead are doing something that doesn’t have a real return on investment and isn’t a required activity? Maybe mindlessly scrolling on your phone or watching TV? That’s not to say either activities are bad or to be avoided at all times. But could they be reduced? Only you can decide. You may have appointment TV watching that you use for your own personal sanity. That’s understandable. But are there any habits of marginal personal return – often consisting of passive consumption of some kind – that could be converted into writing time?

Third step. Could you wake up 30 minutes earlier? (Maybe not – but what if you could?) Could you stay at work 30 minutes longer and jot down some ideas? I’ve realized (all too late) that I am a natural early riser and so now I wake up most mornings, brew an Italian coffee and get to work. No one else is up and I am alone with my thoughts and my writing (see below for more on this trick).

Also: What about exchanging work with a friend once a month? Knowing you’re expected – and have the chance – to share writing should motivate you to put something down on paper.

Tools. Can you carry a notebook wherever you go? A small one. Slip it into your shirt pocket or a purse. What about stowing a journal in your car? Keep it on the passenger seat (if it’s free!) and open it up at a stop light or write for a few minutes when you arrive early to an appointment.

Tricks. What’s something you love doing? Going to coffee shops? Eating chocolate? Taking walks alone or with your dog? Could you combine that activity with writing? Make it an activity you do not have to be convinced to do – something you love to do. And bring along a writing implement and get to work. Similarly, is there a place where you feel inspired or at peace? Maybe a beloved hiking trail or even the dog park. Could you go there and write?

For more about keeping a notebook, take a look at this piece I wrote for Longreads.

Happy writing!

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Lo dico al Corriere: Basta con gli anglicismi

Ecco la lettera che ho scritto a Aldo Cazzullo al Corriere della Sera, con lo scopo di far ricordare che l'Italiano fa parte del patrimonio del Paese.

Caro Aldo,

Sono diversi anni che le voglio scrivere a causa degli anglicismi che ormai si leggono in tanti titoli, e tanti articoli (sia sul Corriere che altrove), e che vengono usati come nomi di iniziative, norme, aziende, ecc., in Italia. Ed è una cosa che mi duole, io essendo una studentessa perenne della vostra lingua (la lingua di Dante).

 

Andai in Italia per la prima volta come studentessa universitaria e mi appassionai del paese e della lingua. Quell’anno si tenne il referendum sulla riforma elettorale, fra l'altro, e la mattina dopo, ricordo tuttora oggi il titolo su un giornale quando passai davanti all'edicola prima delle lezioni: “L’Italia è desta.” Notate bene, desta, non ‘awake.’

Può sembrare strano che una persona di madrelingua inglese come me se ne lamenta così forte, ma la vostra lingua mi ha incantato! E non solo. Pur avendo il privilegio di poter frequentare l'università, seguivo i miei studi a stento. Solamente quando approdai a Siena per studiare, trovai la mia vera passione. Oggi ci metto l'impegno di ritenere la padronanza della vostra lingua perché lavoro in modo saltuario come traduttrice letteraria, ed ho persino insegnato italiano qui in USA.

 

Quindi quando leggo un titolo con una frase come ‘over 40’ (incluso nel titolo per questo articolo in primo piano: https://milano.corriere.it/notizie/cronaca/21_maggio_17/vaccino-covid-due-settimane-prenotazioni-ultimi-33-milioni-lombardi-9a9ae50a-b6f5-11eb-ba17-f6e1f3fff06b.shtml) o ‘flat tax’ (trovato qui: https://www.corriere.it/economia/finanza/cards/riforma-fiscale-flat-tax-meno-aliquote-chi-non-paghera-tasse-tutte-ipotesi/riforma-irpef-il-2022_principale.shtml) mi viene da piangere. Mi preoccupo che anche in quest’anno in cui gli italiani festeggiano i 700 anni dalla morte di Dante, sono in pochi a capire quanto sia una ricchezza la lingua che ci ha lasciato. Chiudo questa lettera con un’ultimo pensiero: quando do consigli agli amici americani che stanno per viaggiare in italia, gli dico di fare in modo di poter parlare un po’ d’italiano durante il viaggio. Perché per me una gita in Italia vale poco se uno non può godere la lingua italiana – preziosa quanto il Duomo di Firenze o il Colosseo a Roma.

Saluti cordiali,

Jeanne

What I've feared most about post-pandemic life

(UPDATED -- below) I haven't feared returning to 'normal life.' I've feared not being able to return to normal life. 

I fear that I will recede even more from public life than before the pandemic, that I will decline even more invitations, that I will become someone who won't join any club that would have her, to paraphrase an old saying I heard growing up (an aspiration I was already fighting before we were put under by the pandemic anesthesiologist).

I fear I will talk to even fewer people. I will go out even less than I did before the pandemic. I'll end up shelving even more plans to walk around town or visit the museum or catch a movie by myself (well, maybe not that last one, since it is something I love and is by definition, not social).

To sum up, I fear the lessons -- and the habits -- of the past year have made an indelible impression upon me, permanently altering how I navigate the world.

To be sure, my hope is that I will go on a frenzy of visits and meetups and I've already thought about the places I'd like to visit -- Philadelphia, to see dear old friends; the Jersey Shore, to sit for hours listening to my aunts and uncles while I still can; and of course, eventually, to Italy to console my beloved Italian friends, one of whom likened the lockdown to being 'seppelliti in casa,' buried in your house.

But I see how the pandemic has conspired to etch an extremely small world for me, after motherhood  had -- for very good reasons -- already done the same (motherhood opened many doors, but logically closed others; it's been a minute since I've visited a disco, for starters. It's been a minute since I've considered a job that would require a lot of travel). 

Now a converted suburbanite (YIKES!) amid a global pandemic, I basically don't go anywhere other than Leo's school. 

We hike, yes, we do a lot of hiking. And it feels wonderful.

But that's it. Until we were vaccinated earlier this month, we rarely even walked into town. Because in town, there are people.

I am now old. When I return to Italy, I prepare at length for the long vacation days where I will walk endless distances over cobblestones, talk with long-lost friends, kvetch, window-shop, live outdoors. Chalk it up to a midlife awakening to the pleasures of being a partial introvert (probably very surprising to people I knew in other lives, but helpful for my writing efforts).

Similarly, I think I need to begin preparing now to live again, post-pandemic. But how? 

Small steps, I guess. I finally saw my old friend, Beth, last month, after a year-long hiatus and gorged on nearly four hours of glorious conversation. We met at a nature preserve in Massachusetts, halfway between our homes. I didn’t even have lunch – just a granola bar. The conversation was my lunch. The boys ran ahead and dammed creeks and climbed rocks and we just talked and talked. Leo was frequently waving sticks dangerously but I paid no attention until Beth helpfully alerted me. I was just lost in wonderful conversation!

'The Last Speakers' and the other yesterday

I've just read the most fascinating book about the scores of indigenous languages that are disappearing around the globe.

I've read about this before but not in a book-length treatment. The book is called The Last Speakers: The Quest to Save the World's Most Endangered Languages, by K. David Harrison, a Swarthmore professor and an explorer with the National Geographic Society. 

In it, the author frequently laments what will be lost when a particular language ceases to be spoken. As he and his partner-in-rescuing-languages put it, when a language is in danger of disappearing, a way of looking at the world is also at risk for becoming obsolete. Gone.

In some cases, he is talking about a language spoken by a handful of people. And it can be easy to think it's not that important.

But then he mentions particular phrases. Like the Tofa people  in Russia calling October not a single word like ottobre (Italian) or pazdziernik (Polish) but rather "the month of rounding up male reindeer."

To indulge a "Jerry Maguire" reference, he had me at rounding up reindeer (male or female). Because clearly that is quite distinct from how I think of October. When I say I like October, I am saying little more than a preference for a particular 31-day stretch of the year that happens to fall later on the calendar.

And I know what he means, simply by knowing Italian. Italians don't say 'the day before yesterday.' The phrase they often use translates literally to 'the other yesterday' (ieri l'altro, colloquially or l'altro ieri).

Ditto 'the day after tomorrow.' For some Italians, that's the other tomorrow, literally (domani l'altro, again, colloquially).

I also love the phrase "sa di fumo" or "sa di chiuso" where the verb for to know (sapere) takes on the connotation "smells like." In the first case, you might say "sa di fumo" if you enter a room that smells like smoke. But note: literally it means "it knows about smoke," or "it knows of smoke."

In many cases, Harrison's examples are much more expressive. To wit, 'roundup male reindeer month.' Other members of a language group he interviewed had months like "Moose month," "Green month," and "Bear month." That feels as though it has a touch of anthropology thrown in.

But that doesn't mean the quirky Italian linguistic curiosities don't delight or have merit. Why do they say, instead of the phrase about wanting to have your cake and eat it, 'have the bottle full and the wife (ALSO) drunk?' (Avere la botte piena e la moglie ubriaca).

I've always told people that the first two words I distinctly remember learning on the ground in Italy -- which is to say separate from my university studies before I was in country -- were the verb "scherzare" (to joke or to kid) and the noun "sciopero" (a labor strike). Talk about cultural immersion! The first word covers a key part of Italian life, probably even the Italian coping mechanism, and the second hints at how their society is set up, who's at the table, who wields some modicum of power, and how that dynamic plays out (i.e., when I lived in Florence, there were days when the bus to work was late because of a labor strike).

I've written about something similar before in the context of Leo's early forays into English. He would say "tomorrow's tomorrow," rather than the day after tomorrow, and the process of decoding his words reminded me of learning Italian. I love the idea that tomorrow gives birth to another day -- tomorrow's tomorrow. I also love imagining the little burgeoning paths of his brain, not able yet to grasp the words "the day after tomorrow," but understanding that days are linked, that one follows another.

Makes me wonder if I shouldn't have studied linguistics! Studying a foreign language, as I have, positions you at the edge of the field of linguistics -- but just the edge.

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He asks Twitter's best questions (for CNN)

What opening lyric of a song gives you the chills? What celebrity death hit you the hardest? What's something extremely strange you believed as a kid?Without saying the person’s name, who is your favorite musician? What film role was 100% perfectly cast? 

These are some of the questions that caught my eye when I first stumbled on Eric Alper's Twitter account. The Canadian music publicist and aficionado isn't looking to troll anyone, but rather tap into a sense of shared nostalgia.

So I wrote a mini-profile of him for CNN.

You can read the piece here:

https://www.cnn.com/2021/05/05/entertainment/eric-alper-twitter-conversation/index.html

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To blog or not to blog (for Brevity)

I wrote a piece about whether writers should maintain a personal blog for the Brevity Nonfiction Blog, but I will confess I only know that I think blogging is time well-spent. Other writers may come to other conclusions! Indeed, even one writer I quote in the piece who does keep a personal blog doesn't necessarily recommend it.

 

"I will continue to blog because I have a blog. Because I like to track a particular activity – my Italian language engagement – through blogging and I take advantage of the platform to also publish writing about other interests. Essentially, when you come to my blog, you’re around my table. And while other people would serve you a meal there, I’d like to serve you my writing."

To read the rest, go here:

https://brevity.wordpress.com/2021/04/02/to-blog-or-not-to-blog/

Postcard from the vaccine dispensary

I won't give you an image that you can print but rather one you can perhaps feel: when I arrived at my vaccine appointment yesterday, I promptly began to tear up. 

I wasn't tired. I hadn't had a bad day. I suppose my hair looked like it always does and what of it? That wouldn't make me cry. No one yelled, bad news hadn't searched me out and found me yesterday. 

No, I am simply ready to live again. 

I am weeping over all the days I haven't been living. 

And that was the inspiration behind every tearful greeting of thanks I dispensed at the cavernous Oakdale Theater-turned-get-your-old-life-back-here station; to the door clerk who took my name, to the Hartford Healthcare official with her pink tweed jacket who checked my ID and gave me that precious vaccine card, to the nurse who gave me the shot -- he looked almost bewildered by my profuse thanks -- to the soldier on his phone who didn't happen to help me other than his simple presence helped me. 

My left shoulder is sore but not nearly as much as my spirit. Friends, let's live again (and H/T to George Bailey whose bit of dialogue from the second bridge scene is forever stuck in my head).

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Edith Bruck: "La lingua è la mia patria"

Edith Bruck has published a new memoir called Il pane perduto, and the 88-year-old survivor of Auschwitz is promoting the book through a series of talks. I was able to "attend" one at Biblioteca Villino Corsini and I took some notes on what she said. So much wisdom in the words of a woman who for over 70 years has had to not only live without her parents and her beloved brother but also live with the knowledge that they perished in the  Holocaust in the cruelest way. Our dead loved ones, she told the virtual audience, "vivono dentro di noi," they live inside of us, and "sono sempre con noi," they are always with us.

Of her experience entering Auschwitz at age 12, she says, “Ho vissuto qualcosa assolutamente inimmaginabile,” meaning, "I lived through something that is absolutely unimaginable." 

And forget forgetting it, obviously: "Non riesci mai a dimenticare," You never manage to forget it. (But the rest of us? We do manage to forget this horrific era of humanity again and again. This era, which is not even so far away from today).

So how to survive? How to survive more than 70 years?

“Ci rifiugiamo nella scrittura.”

We take refuge in writing, she says. Indeed, Italian is a "rifiugio" for her. Or put a different way, "Language is my country."

Bruck began writing in Italian in the 1950s, and her entire body of work is in Italian -- the language she chose to describe what she couldn't bring herself to describe in her native Hungarian (language is her country, she says).

It's no surprise, then, that she says we need "una lingua nuova" (a new language) and "nuove parole" (and new words) to describe Auschwitz.

Even now.

I have had the honor of translating some of Bruck's poetry and she has also given me permission to translate some of her short stories. And it is one small way that I never forget the Shoah. That I pay respect, and that I seek to learn and re-learn the lessons of that era. It's become a small personal project to learn as much as I can about the Holocaust and World War II.

I'll never be able to learn enough. Luckily. I have her new memoir -- which has made this grand old lady once again a finalist for the Premio Strega. Auguri, Edith!

Italian language lab: "Negazionista"

I am still learning Italian, after all of these years, because modern life continues to unfold and words are coined or emerge more prominently. 

And hence I am still marveling over tiny flourishes that make Italian distinctive and which seem -- maybe only to me -- to render the particular character of the Italian people manifest. In this case, "negazionista," the word Italians have been using to describe the people who deny or play down the pandemic (it's also used for those who deny other verifiable facts). If you click on this hyperlink, you'll find a piece about an Italian man who'd been propagating falsehoods about Covid-19 until he fell ill with it; the headline, which for me is golden, and which you can see here in the picture, begins: Il Negazionista Pentito ("the remorseful denier," is one way to translate it; the whole headline reads, "The remorseful denier: I'm sick, I have Covid. Now I understand").

I may get a little carried away because I've known myself to practically weep over the word 'babbo' (which means Daddy). The rational side of me says the word 'negazionista' is a logical linguistic locution. Negare, after all, can be translated as the English verb 'to deny,' and 'ista' is a common suffix to denote an individual engaged habitually in a particular action -- often a profession (A journalist, for example, is a giornalista; a corporate shareholder is an azionista; you'll recognize it maybe from the term 'fashionista,' which is used in America, and of course English retains this usage -- journalist, dentist, pharmacist, etc).

So perhaps 'negazionista' isn't all that tricky a word combination.

But it sounds oh so tricky to me. (And what's wonderful is that it's a true Italian coinage. None of this 'Il Jobs Act' or 'Lo spread' or 'Il personal branding' where Italians act as though their native tongue is too impoverished to create new words and/or concepts invented abroad are so superior they need to retain their original English-language nomenclature).

It reminds me a bit of some of the swooning I do over Natalia Ginzburg's books. 

Maybe because it's the simplest little Italian linguistic tics that seem cozy. When I gave my graduate lecture at Bennington (for my MFA), I waxed poetically about the way Italians will sometimes add "la" to women's names when referring to them in the third person. In Ginzburg's masterpiece, Lessico Famigliare ("Family Lexicon"), she refers to her sister as 'la Paola.'  I am, for example, 'la Jeanne,' and yes, I've heard Italian friends refer to me that way.

It's a tiny thing, and something that actually cannot easily be translated and so it's not. In Jenny McPhee's masterful translation of Ginzburg's book (which I reviewed for the Kenyon Review), she dispenses with the "la" and just says "Paola."

But getting back to negazionista: we, too, in America have people who aren't taking the pandemic seriously or don't even think there IS a pandemic. And they're referred to as "pandemic deniers." But, see, there's nothing tricky about a denier. 

To be the equivalent of a negazionista, we'd need to call the deniers, I don't know, something like deny-men or deny-ists.   

And so I'm pretty happy to conclude this trip to the Italian language lab with the thought that Italian is an incredibly rich language that I have the privilege of knowing and exploring.

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Ocean Vuong interviews that I binge-watch

(Updated) I've been interested in the work of Ocean Vuong since I moved near his childhood hometown of Hartford, Conn., a few years ago. But I've only just begun listening to interviews he's given (mainly about his novel, On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous), and I find the way he speaks is mesmerizing. 

Both the substance of what he is saying and the way he says it summons my full attention.

He's one of those people about whom it could be said, "He's old beyond his years."

What incredible fortitude -- his childhood after leaving Vietnam and coming to America wasn't easy -- and also incredible grace. Not to mention a certain acumen for dispensing with silly literary distinctions; when asked about how he blends poetry with prose, he says something like, "I am an apprentice of the sentence." As if to say, in the end, words and sentences, which convey human thought and emotion, are key, regardless of the configuration. 

I love that!

He's also phenomenally well-read.

Below are four interviews I could consume over and over again. The one from the NPR program "On Being" also comes in an extended version (~90 minutes). Here's the link:

https://onbeing.org/programs/ocean-vuong-a-life-worthy-of-our-breath/

He talks at length in this interview about the struggles of immigrants in America, saying that immigrant parents give their children these instructions:  "Work, fade away, get your meals and live a quiet life."

He adds, "That's the great crisis of the first and second generation."

The "conundrum," he says, for the second generation is this: "They want to be seen -- they want to make something. And what a better way to make something ... than to be an artist."

Then he makes this devastating observation, "So many of us immigrant children end up betraying our parents in order to subversively achieve our parents' dreams."

I don't know if I am hearing right, but it sounds as though his voice breaks as he says this (his voice conveys emotion a lot and it's hard to know sometimes if he's on the verge of tears or just simply that's his voice, and for me, that's part of why it mesmerizes me). Either way, what a bold, heartbreaking and profound statement about one particular iteration of the parent-child saga.

I recently discovered this one with host David Perell (2026):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kn4r4CmWmUw

And here's one Connecticut Public Radio's Colin McEnroe conducted:

https://www.wnpr.org/post/conversation-ocean-vuong-1

Lastly, from Christiane Amanpour's show on PBS:

"Cosa succede se ami i libri più di ogni cosa al mondo?"

I don't do this very often -- and by this, I mean write in Italian on this blog (I used to). I also mean: blog about other blogs on my blog.

But now's the time to do both ... but before I lose my Anglophone readers, I'll tell you it's the blog that an itinerant librarian keeps (the title translates into "The Happy Librarian" and the quote above, brace yourself, means: 'What happens if you love books more than anything else on Earth?').

Amici italiani, sono lieta di segnalarvi un bellissimo blog scritto da una signora che come avrete capito ama i libri! Addirittura porta i libri usati a vari mercatini di Roma. Viene descritta come "una infaticabile libraia di strada." Vuole "metter in contatto" chi "deve eliminare libri" con "chi li vuole e non puo' averli per svariati motivi."

Come dice lei, l'obiettivo non ha niente a che fare col commercio. Invece secondo lei, "È un progetto per vivere e far vivere i libri."

Ed ha iniziato ad unire i libri con chi ne ha bisogno perché è stata costretta a re-inventarsi. Fino a poco tempo fa, insegnava giornalismo alla scuola media, fra altre attività. E poi all'improvviso è rimasta senza lavoro.

Per seguire le sue attività e approssimarvi ad una persona che mi pare deliziosa, andate qui:

https://iosonounalibraia.wordpress.com/

La potete anche seguire su Twitter, cliccando qui.

Ci sono tanti aspetti belli di questa sua iniziativa. Chi ama i libri è quasi sempre una persona che io vorrei conoscere. Ma una persona che si dedica a portare i libri agli altri, come se fosse la medicina? Secondo me si tratta di una persona davvero eccezionale. E poi, pur essendo una signora di una certa età (io pure!), ha adoperato i nuovi mezzi di comunicazione, eccome! Aggiungo per ultimo che non si lamenta ... mai. 

Fatevi il piacere di conoscere questa signora tramite il suo blog!

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"Love, Leo and Caramel"

I’ve asked Leo to write birthday cards this year to my mother and to Liz, and I noticed that he signs them now, “Love, Leo and Caramel.” (Editor's note: Caramel is a dog!)

I find it heartbreaking, in so many ways. I mean, heartbreakingly beautiful, of course, and tender and joyful, but somehow also just plain heartbreaking.

Last night, Leo and I were reading aloud from the book Who was Albert Einstein? when we came to a line that reads more or less like this: "Albert as a boy believed there were two ways to live life: as if nothing were a miracle or as if everything were a miracle."

And unprompted Leo said, "I want to live my life as if everything were a miracle."

I don't know if he said it, thinking that’s what I would want to hear, 

I can only hope he is really sincere.

And I said, "Me, too."

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Question about the radio in your brain

March 24, 2021

Do you cue up the song on your computer or stereo and threaten to permanently dislodge it from your head?

Or do you lean into the loop your mind keeps replaying, even though it’s only your mind’s version of the song, and only the snippet your mind insists on replaying? 

(In this case, “The Street Only Knows Your Name,” by Van Morrison)

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The Great Gatsby -- in Italian!

I tell myself I should read English and American classics in Italian just for fun, yet I rarely do. I tend to want to read the works written in English in English and the Italian works in Italian. But I stumbled upon the opening line of The Great Gatsby in Italian on Twitter and I must admit I was enchanted!

''Negli anni più vulnerabili della giovinezza, mio padre mi diede un consiglio che non mi è mai 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.'"

ORIGINAL:

"In my younger and more vulnerable years, my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since. '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.'"

(It's interesting to see how other American classics get translated across the pond. For example, Gone With The Wind? In Italian, it's "Via col vento.")

In this case, I am especially mesmerized because I often think of The Great Gatsby as my favorite novel, and it's a book that I sometimes re-read around my birthday as a gift to myself. What's more, it may be the translator's prerogative to consider what's lost in translation (more is gained typically, just to be clear). Here it catches my eye that the phrase 'turning over in my mind' becomes something in Italian more like 'has never left my mind.' I love the frission of this idea continually circulating, re-emerging, in Nick's mind.

One classic I did read in Italian was The Diary of Anne Frank (called simply "Il diario.") That may be a perfect book to read in any language because it's less about prose style than pure feeling.

I am always looking for ways to continue my study of Italian, and also to deepen my study of other languages. It seems quite obvious that I would want to know the opening lines of my favorite novel in any language I come across, much less my beloved second language. 

But life has a way of distracting us, doesn't it?

For Dantedi & always

🌿📕 #LeparolediDante #CruscaScuola (terza lezione)

Giovanna Frosini, accademica della Crusca
Parlare di Dante agli studenti: l'esempio di Purgatorio XIV https://t.co/5YxIEmxinE

— Accademia della Crusca (@AccademiaCrusca) March 24, 2021

The Accademia della Crusca, the venerable institute based in Florence that studies, promulgates and safeguards the Italian language, is on its "A" game for Dantedi as it prepares for the holiday dedicated to Italy's greatest poet, Dante, on March 25. The institute makes phenomenal use of Twitter, tweeting out for example "parole di Dante" every day (parole = words).

What's even more engrossing is the series of lessons based on specific cantos. One of the institute's learned scholars, Giovanna Frosini, reads and provides comment on a particular canto (above). The text of the canto appears alongside the video, so it's really a teaching moment, but not only for Italians living in Italy but anyone who studies Italian. 

Hear her read the canto, and see the words simultaneously. A pretty perfect foreign language study scenario.

Not surprising given the special edition of Dantedi that's underway this year, what with the 700th anniversary of Dante's death. But still I like to give praise where praise is due, and the institute's general efforts, and notable embrace of modern technology to celebrate an ancient text are inspiring.

We'll never stop studying Dante, and luckily there are a lot of people on-hand, even from this great a distance from Florence, to help us out. Mille grazie agli studiosi dell'Accademia della Crusca!

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Pandemic journal, one year later

March 16, 2020

I have asked my students to keep a Coronavirus Journal, and so I will, too. We are all shell-shocked by the turn our lives are taking. Please tell me they will see writing in the journal as “therapeutic,” to quote something one student said the first night of the course, all the way back in January – when we met in an actual classroom on campus and began something together.

March 18, 2020

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. 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. 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.

Let’s take a visit 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” yesterday 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 plague-like living.

March 20, 2020

I’m calling this the Coronavirus Journal, but it’s also the journal of my father’s illness. I spoke with him yesterday and it was a replay of the conversation from the day before. Small grievances, no desire to read, the TV is “broken” but he knows it’s just some small quirk that if someone were there would be fixed instantly. I pine for the obsessively sharp, needling Daddy. I pine for some rebuke -- enough of this fog.

March 21, 2020

On Saturday, I texted Cristiano, Ilaria, Chiara, Irene and every other Italian friend I hadn’t already contacted. Irene said living under quarantine there was like being “seppellita a casa,” buried inside your house. And they ask, ‘What about in Connecticut?’ 

Today I go to learn about conducting a virtual lesson and setting up a virtual classroom. YIKES!

March 23, 2020

My coronavirus diary exists alongside my Daddy 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 a very tired Daddy. He kept repeating certain key details of his blood transfusion – for instance, it took four hours. 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.