Federigo Tozzi: Il maggiolino / The may bug (from the collection Bestie)

“In 1917 [Tozzi] timidly came out with a book, Bestie, which was a sort of album of preparatory sketches. The title and the subject matter misled some hasty analogists who went so far as to find hints of Tristan Bernard. That lucid and dismayed way of seeing human suffering transposed into nature was, instead, all Tozzi.” G.A.Borgese

Il maggiolino

Federigo Tozzi

La primavera è proprio da per tutto, anche dove non ce n’è bisogno. Anche tra, i sassi del muro franato l’erba è voluta crescere. Per i sentieri più scoscesi, tra i tronchi degli alberi che furono abbattuti con l’ascia, con un’ambizione di farsi vedere che pare perfino ingenua. La primavera assomiglia, questa volta, un poco alla stanza che la nostra amica, aspettandoci, ha adornato di fiori comprati a posta. C’è uno sciupio di gemme e una voglia di fiorire che pare una di quelle accoglienze da segnare poi nel nostro calendario. La primavera in tutti gli stili, perfino roccocò; con certe manie di fare effetto per forza. E pensando a tutto questo lusso, ci si prova ad essere contenti. Le margheritine bianche, quelle dei prati, fanno di tutto per darvi nell’occhio; e gli stessi prati si sono lisciati con la rugiada e il fresco che pare perfino bizzarria e voglia di divertirsi. I pini metton fuori la loro resina come se volessero regalarvela a tutti i costi, e ci si avvicina a loro per guardarli meglio; mentre anche l’azzurro rimane lì per lì un poco rintontito, quasi non sapesse che fare; e, forse, vergognoso di non odorare né meno quanto una violetta. E c’è modo, del resto, per tutti di far qualche cosa. Ma perché, proprio ora, un maggiolino morto.

The may bug

Federigo Tozzi

Spring is just everywhere, even where there’s no need for it to be. The grass has even willed itself to grow among the stones of the tumbledown wall. Along the most uneven paths, among tree trucks felled with an axe, with such a longing to be seen it even seems ingenuous. This time spring looks a bit like the room our friend, who was expecting us, decorated with the flowers she’d bought for the occasion There’s a waste of buds and a desire to flower that is like one of those receptions we later mark on our calender. Spring in every single style, even rococo, absolutely obsessed with making an impression. And when thinking of all this lavishness, we try to be happy. The tiny white daisies, the ones in the fields, do everything they can to attract your attention, and even the fields have sleeked themselves down with such dew and freshness it seems whimsical even, and the yearning for fun. The pine trees put out their resin as if they want to bestow it on you at all costs, and we move closer to see them better; while even the blue remains a bit dazed at first, almost as if it has no idea what to do, and is, maybe, ashamed it doesn’t smell as much as a violet even. And there is, at any rate, a way for everyone to do something. But why, right at this minute, a dead may bug.

Translation ©Matilda Colarossi 2026

It’s spring…and notwithstanding the technical difficulties the work of Tozzi presents, I have tried my best to make the English reader feel what I felt while reading the text.

Striving to recreate his simple yet somewhat archaic language—a language that no longer exists (and perhaps never did exist outside Tozzi)—was not easy. I have no English words to choose from that would prevent me from leading the text away from his Siena, from his Tuscany, to some remote English or Canadian land so distant it would make the translation unrecognisable. So, I relaxed the terms, used less formal English, maintained the syntax where possible, but I inevitably lost the warmth that an accent can give. I hear in Tozzi’s voice echoes of a mother’s embrace, the pain of loneliness, the tepid Tuscan sun, the cheeky Tuscan landscape overflowing with colour and hope I was able to share it. – M.C.

Painting: Komposition III, Franz Marc (1880-1916)

This work is liscenced under https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/