“A first reading of Pavese’s verses immediately gives us the image of a limit that he has tried to force, in the ample periphrasis with which he replaces the precise word. It, therefore, appears to be a blatant criticism of the lyrical essentialism of the past years, and, perhaps, the ambitions of a founder of a school on the opposing bank.
“I don’t believe things are that simple: the limit, against which Pavese tests his strength, is not so much the surrounding environment, but he himself, among other things, that is to say, the fear of going beyond the precise focus of poetry and, in a way, finding himself simply working on his own reflection. His approach to poetry, terribly bold in appearance, is, therefore, in reality terribly cautious.” Sergio Antonielli, Belfagor 2, 1950.
| Lo steddazzu Cesare Pavese L’uomo solo si leva che il mare è ancor buio e le stelle vacillano. Un tepore di fiato sale su dalla riva, dov’è il letto del mare, e addolcisce il respiro. Quest’è l’ora in cui nulla può accadere. Perfino la pipa tra i denti pende spenta. Notturno è il sommesso sciacquìo. L’uomo solo ha già acceso un gran fuoco di rami e lo guarda arrossare il terreno. Anche il mare tra non molto sarà come il fuoco, avvampante. Non c’è cosa più amara che l’alba di un giorno in cui nulla accadrà. Non c’è cosa più amara che l’inutilità. Pende stanca nel cielo una stella verdognola, sorpresa dall’alba. Vede il mare ancor buio e la macchia di fuoco a cui l’uomo, per fare qualcosa, si scalda; vede, e cade dal sonno tra le fosche montagne dov’è un letto di neve. La lentezza dell’ora è spietata, per chi non aspetta più nulla. Val la pena che il sole si levi dal mare e la lunga giornata cominci? Domani tornerà l’alba tiepida con la diafana luce e sarà come ieri e mai nulla accadrà. L’uomo solo vorrebbe soltanto dormire. Quando l’ultima stella si spegne nel cielo, l’uomo adagio prepara la pipa e l’accende. | Lo steddazzu Cesare Pavese The lone man gets up when the sea is still dark and the stars quiver. A warm breath rises up from the shore, where the seabed lies, and eases the breathing. This is the hour when nothing can happen. Even the pipe between his teeth hangs snuffed. Nocturnal is the soft swash. The lone man has already lighted a lively fire of twigs and he watches it redden the earth. The sea too will soon be like the fire, ablaze. There is nothing more bitter than the dawn of a day when nothing will occur. There is nothing more bitter than futility. Hanging wearily in the sky is a greenish star, surprised by the dawn. It sees the still dark sea and the blot of fire where the man, for something to do, warms himself; it sees, and falls sleepily among the misty mountains with its bed of snow. The slowness of the hour is merciless for those who no longer wait for anything. Does it make sense for the sun to rise from the sea and for the long day to begin? Tomorrow the tepid dawn will return with its diaphanous light and it will be like yesterday and nothing will ever happen. The lone man would only like to sleep. When the last star dies in the sky, the man slowly prepares his pipe and lights it. Translation ©Matilda Colarossi 2024 |
The poem Lo steddazzu was written in Calabria in 1935. It is the last poem Pavese wrote during his one-year confinement in Brancaleone Calabro and closes the collection Lavorare stanca. The title of the poem, Lo steddazzu, refers to the morning star, (steddazzu means large star and refers to Venus, the green star, in the Calabrese dialect). In the poem, Pavese describes the monotony and loneliness of life. A sense of melancholy dominates the poem as dawn approaches and the last greenish star, which witnesses and participates in the poet’s listlessness, dies among the misty mountains covered in cold snow.
The poem is composed of three stanzas: two of nine lines and one of seven. Interestingly, it is the last, shortest stanza which is the most important of the three. In choosing to make it shorter, the poet calls our attention to the fact that something is lacking not only there, but in life, his life, which would end in suicide in 1950 at only 42 years of age.
Of the poetic devices used by the poet, we find alliteration (sommesso sciaquìo), assonance (perfino la pipa tra I denti) and consonance (le stelle vacillano), synesthesia (notturno è il sommesso sciaquìo), oxymoron, (mare […] avvampante) and personification: the sea breathes; the star sees. The poet also makes use of anaphora and periphrasis to mark important themes: solitude (the repetition of “the lone man”), monotony (the repetition of “nothing can / will occur”), desperation (“Does it make sense for the sun to rise from the sea / and for the long day to begin?)
It may seem that translating a poem that does not rhyme is easier; unfortunately that is not true. We weigh each and every word and where our own fluency does not suffice, we turn to monolingual dictionaries and dig through the pages looking for hues that we, as non mother tongues, might miss. We follow the poet like faithful hounds, ever at their heels: obsolete word for obsolete solution, formal for formal, informal for informal. Then we read it through and start all over again, dictionaries begging us to stop…And still, the translation never seems to be exactly what we imagined. – M.C.
This work is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0
Hi, Mati, this most recent of your translations of Pavese most definitely captures the feeling of a human deeply depressed by the enormous mystery of existence. Therefore I compliment your bold stroke in rendering Val la pena . . . as “Does it make sense . . .”.
Ciao for now,
Joseph Alan Roberts (now living in Oliva, Spain)
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Oh thank you so much. “Vale la pene” was a tough one. I kept going back and forth between that and “is it worthwhile”, but the latter just didn’t sound right…
I love this poem, all of “Lavorare stanca”, really: trasuda il suo mal di vivere, no?
Mati
Ps: Welcome to this side of the pond!
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