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Ma come stabilire il momento esatto in cui comincia una storia? Tutto è sempre cominciato già da prima, la prima riga della prima pagina d'ogni roman… - Italo Calvino
" "Ma come stabilire il momento esatto in cui comincia una storia? Tutto è sempre cominciato già da prima, la prima riga della prima pagina d'ogni romanzo rimanda a qualcosa che è già successo fuori dal libro. Oppure la vera storia è quella che comincia dieci o cento pagine più avanti e tutto ciò che precede è solo un prologo. Le vite degli individui della specie umana formano un intreccio continuo, in cui ogni tentativo di separare un pezzo di vissuto che abbia un senso separatamente dal resto - per esempio, l'incontro di due persone che diventerà decisivo per entrambi - deve tener conto che ciascuno dei due porta con sé un tessuto di ambienti fatti altre persone, e che dall'incontro deriveranno a loro volta altre storie che si separeranno dalla loro storia comune.
Italian
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About Italo Calvino
Italo Calvino (October 15, 1923 – September 19, 1985) was an Italian journalist and writer of short stories and novels. Lionized in Britain and America, he was, at the time of his death, the most-translated contemporary Italian writer.
Biography information from Wikiquote
Also Known As
Alternative Names:
Italo Giovanni Calvino
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Italo Giovanni Calvino Mameli
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In an age when other fantastically speedy, widespread media are triumphing and running the risk of flattening all communication onto a single, homogeneous surface, the function of literature is communication between things that are different simply because they are different, not blunting but even sharpening the differences between them, following the true bent of the written language.
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And in that moment we all thought of the space that her round arms would occupy moving backward and forward with the rolling pin over the dough, her bosom leaning over the great mound of flour and eggs, [...] and we thought of the space the flour would occupy, and the wheat for the flour, and the fields to raise the wheat, and the mountains from which the water would flow to irrigate the fields; [...] of the space it would take for the Sun to arrive with its rays, to ripen the wheat; of the space for the Sun to condense from the clouds of stellar gases and burn; of the quantities of stars and galaxies and galactic masses in flight through space which would be needed to hold suspended every galaxy, every nebula, every sun, every planet, and at the same time we thought of it, this space was inevitably being formed, at the same time that Mrs. Ph(i)Nk0 was uttering those words: "… ah, what noodles, boys!" the point that contained her and all of us was expanding in a halo of distance in light-years and light-centuries and billions of light-millennia, and we were being hurled to the four corners of the universe, [...] and she, dissolved into I don't know what kind of energy-light-heat, she, Mrs. Ph(i)Nk0, she who in the midst of our closed, petty world had been capable of a generous impulse, "Boys, the noodles I would make for you!," a true outburst of general love, initiating at the same moment the concept of space and, properly speaking, space itself, and time, and universal gravitation, and the gravitating universe, making possible billions and billions of suns, and of planets, and fields of wheat, and Mrs. Ph(i)Nk0s, scattered through the continents of the planets, kneading with floury, oil-shiny, generous arms, and she lost at that very moment, and we, mourning her loss.
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