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€ 30.000 - 35.000
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€ 28.000
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At auction on Wednesday 20 November 2024 at 16:00
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Specialist Notes
“She burst forth from the heart of the people like a whirlpool of frozen blood: and this cruel substantiality and this biting ardour have remained in her art, through such a broad evolution that has finally transformed her to the point that, as impetus and as style, one could no longer recognize oneself in the poetess of I Canti dell'Isola and Il Dono , the poetess of Fatality and Tempesta . She emerged from the people as from a matrix and a prison; feeling herself to be the flesh of the people in the elementarity, in the hard throb, in the suffering (…)”
This is the incipit of the long memory of Ada Negri signed by Ettore Cozzani, dated Milan 13 January 1945, 3-4 pm. His close friend, the Poetess of Italy had died just two days before and with temporal precision (3-4 pm), Cozzani wants to capture on paper the image of his Ada Negri. He does so in 9 long pages perhaps unpublished, admirably sketching the character of the person and the art of one of the protagonists of the twentieth century. The missed Nobel given a couple of decades earlier to Deledda, but which she would have fully deserved.
The writer is not just any critic, but the one who in 1911 gave life to one of the most innovative, elegant and contradictory magazines of his generation: L'Eroica . The meeting of two sublime souls will give rise to a deep and sincere friendship, all testified by the present correspondence. A correspondence that begins in September 1919 and ends on March 24, 1944: 25 years of deep spiritual partnership lived in the name of great Poetry, read, commented, judged, passionately lived. The first letter speaks of Holderlin, of the creative impulse, of wrong judgments and of not judging: "I remain with much turmoil in my soul, because I do not like to judge: on the contrary, I would always like to exalt myself before the work of a poet." A poet is not judged, he exalts himself, he feels, he lives. But perhaps there are few true poets. She speaks of her writing, difficult, tormented: “You ask me about myself and you still mention the terrible name of Bach. I don’t dare answer you after having written the first part of this letter. It seems to me that the knot is unravelling; but I’m at the beginning and it’s all raw material. I’ll send you a page only when I’m – if possible – a little sure of myself.” There are some absolute models of poetry, though. “I regret not attending your lessons on Leopardi. Here we are truly in POETRY.” And these are just a few passages from the first letter of the correspondence, a taste, but for refined palates. A friendship that, as in the best traditions, has its ups and downs. Moments of silence: “Dear Friend, for a long, too long time there has been silence between us. But between two friends like you and I there can be a lot of silence without the internal conversation being interrupted. (…)". Even silence, between two deep friends, has clear and poetic words. A correspondence that is enriched with some ramifications, such as the 10 equally intense letters to Arnaldo Cervesato. Yet another glimpse into the soul of a writer that all of Italy loved and venerated, but that the spirit of the times (changed) has perhaps too quickly relegated to oblivion. That spirit instead pulsates from the lines of this correspondence and waits to be studied, published and admired. Because inside there is true life and spirit.