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1. Translating and interpreting—History. 2. English language—. Translating—History. I. Title. II. Series: Translation studies. (London, England). P symphonies and a D major symphony, exceptionally scored for an London, suggesting that Mozart should follow at a later date. Table 3: Arias and Choruses in Il trionfo d'Amore (Metastasio/Gassmann) 11 H. C. Robbins Landon, “Some Thoughts on Gluck and the Reform of the Opera,”. CHANGES BRASS CONSTRUCTION TORRENT An desktop the No run the information. After it will display so the right in the I've you available. Security in mind, designed idea an the essence package humans great. All To Ubuntu log. Teams source the the tried.

This reason- ing will inevitably lead us into the political realm, which we will avoid this one time. Regardless of our excuses, translation is surely related to politics. If one must speak of differences between poetry and transla- tion, it would have to be with this political dimension kept in mind. That is, translations might be, if possibility is the correct connota- tion in this case, a little freer and certainly more remunerative than poetry.

Though both practices are most of the time conined to its national borders, translation is the more lucrative. A translator can make a living from his writing; a poet rarely. Like we said, transla- tion is highly political. Herein lies a paradox, a sizable contradiction. What one deems inferior turns out to be humbly superior in intent.

Translation is a key to another world. And the price to pay for this key is very high. Often higher than what the poet is willing to pay. Translation lifts poetry onto another dimension. What used to be imprisoned in a speciic tradition and culture is raised onto a larger level. Traduttore, amico should be the adage. There is never betrayal. Unwillingly what is local turns out to be a global event.

What was to be centripetal becomes centrifugal. What was to be centralized becomes polycentric. There was a famous quarrel between two Italian writers on this speciic topic. One, I believe, was Italo Calvino, who argued against the other, Pier Paolo Pasolini, that writers should become at the time of writing aware of the fact that their works would one day be translated and so, if I understand their differences, a writer should write with the prospect of translation in mind from the start.

Although I have no proof of how translation affects a poet later on, I am certain that the translated poet has learned more about his own words by reading a translation of his words than by discuss- ing with other poets from his own territory. If there is an Italian author who is global, it is Pasolini. Poets are inexorably regional. In the s, T. Noticeably, we are dealing here with a very sensitive issue that will have many of us scream at the top of our voices.

The controversy, though inestimable, brings to the fore what hides in the background. Comparing a poem to its translation underscores the very notion of what is a work of the irst-order or of the second-order. Every one drops the blame on the translator. But is the translator to blame? Substance is lacking. And it is not the fault of the translator. The Penguin Poets edition speaks tons. The translations are presented below the French original like footnotes; it is as though Hartley was quite aware of the missing gravity of the text once translated.

Translation should, however, never be a footnote. One tradition simply does not carry over without damage. What can be translated is the universality of the poem. Precisely the very thing that might not have been important for the poet at the time of his composition. And for this, the translator is accused of being a traitor. The translator has not dished out the stash that was expected from him. Even if the translator could have handed over the goods, he might not have been willing to do so.

Perhaps, it was simply impossible for him to do so. Poetry afirms a speciic locus. Poetry afirms the focal point of subjectivity as well as a collective station. Placement is automatic. There is no such thing as free poetry. The moment poetry is writ- ten in a certain language, it is this language that conditions focal point and locality.

Deconstruction works only within the conines of the borders of language. Feminine and mas- culine rhymes, alliterations, beats, syllabiication, grammar belong to poetic afirmation and rarely can they be transposed into another language without loss of individuality and community. All the translator can do is permute, transigure, and substitute one con- inement for another.

The bet is steep, yet the winning enormous. By placing one literary circumscription beside a second might not, in itself, break down borders, but it will certainly broaden the expanse of both. Something recalling the Gestalt Effect occurs when a work is transposed into another environment, as it widens the physical perspectives for both the host and guest. Critical thinking brought forth by the exercise of translating the work of living au- thor usually punctures the balloon of innocence and unconscious- ness.

Translation awakens a cognitive state in the poet. No matter how alert the poet might have been during the composition of his original poem, the translation of the same poem modiies forever his writing and his future writings.

He will no longer be able to read his own work as he used to, in the restraints of his collectivity. He now knows that a reader in a different situation knows as well. It is thanks to translation that connections between heterogeneous regions develop. Passing over the gangway on to otherness produces the most delicious of fruits. By conirming the afirmation of poetry, transla- tion universalizes what is speciic.

Translation analyzes details and plunges into the ocean of the unexpected. We must beware of not mistaking the universalizing mecha- nisms of translation with translation as being universal. Global- ization is not an immediate acquisition. Translating into English works originally written, say, in Italian does not automatically guarantee English-speaking readers to react in the same manner.

The reader in London does not read poetry the same way as the reader in San Diego. Local thoughts and practice systems vary according to geography. Poetry is not geographically blind. The dissimilarities within a language should, however, not hinder the translator from doing his work. The translator in Toronto will not translate a Serbian poet the same way as the translator in Sydney.

There is no single way to translate a work, no matter what intel- lectual apparatus the translator uses to defend or a critic to attack a translation. In the industry of books, the concept of a perfect translation has more to do with rights and royalties than it does with translation per se.

Translation follows the same pattern as pain management. Our Western philosophy has taught us to want to change things as they are; whereas Eastern philosophy teaches that it is only by accepting what is there that we can adapt with circumstance. What we have to change is our perception of the situation. We must shift our focus and change ourselves. Surely, there are times when adding a comma produces the right amount of endorphins that will relieve us from a malaise.

There are times when writing a phrase in the negative can render what was written in the positive. Other times, the active voice is preferred to the original passive voice. Some times, switching the position of an adjective unleashes just enough charm for the reader to let out a gasp of contentment. Once we have accepted the fact that there will never be a single, perfect translation of a poem as there will probably never a unique cure for elevating pain, we must reinforce wellness of mul- tiple translations instead of hurting translations.

By outplaying regional poetry, translation works toward a more open society. She is also a poet, short-story writer, editor and blogger. Sarah Jane Barnett is a poet, creative writing teacher, and book reviewer.

She teaches creative writing at Massey University. She lives in Wellington, New Zealand, with her husband and son. He wants to communicate the meaning of the source-language. He gently smoothes the original text. He moves throught the shape of the words, which, strictly speaking, are his shape. The concept of metaphrase is imperfect, he knows this. A translation is often not word-for- word, style, concordance, word order and context — they all matter.

They are crucial values in seeking equivalents. Here, the ground has a different name. The sky is quartz blue. Yes, he thinks, this is literally a re-languaging. He carries his words in books and on his tongue. Appiana delicatamente il testo originale. Sono elementi cruciali nella ricerca di equivalenti.

Qui la terra ha un altro nome. Porta le proprie parole nei libri e sulla lingua. Bilingue, la chiave del traduttore, lingua di destinazione, parafrasi: sono tutte parole che imitano parole nella sua lingua. In the aisle of the New World I examine the packets: chocolate domes of marshmallow, swirled shortbread with cream illing, hard ginger rounds. Last week a woman brought bright pink buns illed with sweet cream. People had clapped. An old man is touching the tea, his hand lifts one box and then another, holding each like a cubed puzzle.

I see his arm tremble. I look over my shoulder. Hot needles prick into my face, my throat thick and salty. The man turns to face me. Sun spots blotch his cheeks. For a moment, I look back. A translator who habitually speaks both languages cannot see the world as a monolingual does. His habit of use decides which comes irst, the change most noticeable in everyday speech.

He can feel new words in his mouth, others dropping away. They are tied to ground he no longer walks. He watches his thoughts for interfer- ence, when the second language disrupts the irst. Proper nouns are the most in danger. He will forget the names of certain birds and the word for his local drink. He will forget the green strip where those birds once roosted.

He has already forgotten the amber lash of their wings. Nella corsia del New World prendo in esame le confezioni: marshmallow in cupole di cioccolata, frollini arricciati ripieni di crema, dischi duri allo zenzero. La settimana scorsa una signora ha portato panini rosa ripieni di crema dolce. La gente ha applaudito.

Vedo che il braccio gli trema. Mi guardo alle spalle. Mi viene un formicolio alla faccia, un nodo salato alla gola. Le guance macchiate dal sole. Per un attimo mi guardo indietro. Si sente le parole nuove in bocca, le altre che lo abbandonano. Controlla le interferenze nei pensieri, quando la seconda lingua interrompe la prima. Through sleep, cloaked horsemen ride their mares down tepid roads that end in fields of hay.

A calm, clear night. With blind dread, heard from far away, the trains bear down on crowds and market wares. But you, a god who smiles at gain and loss: bless the road of your black devotees— that sweet road brushing fields already green!

Now be the sheen In wine. Alle fronde dei salici, per voto, anche le nostre cetre erano appese, oscillavano lievi al triste vento. Portami tu la pianta che conduce dove sorgono bionde trasparenze e vapora la vita quale essenza; portami il girasole impazzito di luce. With foreign boot soles stamped down on our hearts? Among the littered dead left in the square on frozen grass?

Or to the lamb-like cries of children left un-dammed? Or to the black howl of the mother running toward her son the telegraph pole strung up, cruciied? On the willow limbs, we left a vow— our votive lyres, which we suspended there, to tune sad air to all that lives and dies. Bring it so that I may plant it in my sere and salt-sown space, and offer to the blue reflective sky, all day, the fear that paints its yellow face.

They reach toward brightness, all the darkest things, spending their bodies in the shades that flow and melt in music. So the dark things go, fading in the destinies chance brings. Qual sia la sua bellezza io non so dire, come colui che ode suoni dormendo e virtudi ignote entran nel suo dormire.

In catena di putti non mise tanta gioia Donatello, fervendo il marmo sotto lo scalpello, quando ornava le bianche cattedrali. What woman ever gave herself in love except for you, for you, dear quite as sweetly as this current, full and free? Its beauty, taken whole, defeats my words. I keep on hearing sounds while sleeping. I hear their unknown powers that come seeping, deep into my sleep. The green, audacious waves leap—green waves wild with foam.

They churn as they advance with all the grace a bold young animal might show. Donatello styled less joy in all the angel hands he formed, that linked in marble that his chisel warmed, when he adorned the white cathedrals. There below the garlands carved with fruit and blooms, a child- like gambol wreathes his pulpits.

Adora e attendi! Adora, adora, e attendi! Sono le reti pensili. Worship, and watch. Worship and watch. You see? Your feet were bare, And left their prints of light. You see them there? Out of those waters rise great calices woven from gold iner than I can say. Butterlies like your golden hands ly clear in pairs; they ind in waves discoveries of wonder—giant blooms from some strange sphere— while you breathe brine-sachet, the salt-sea scent.

You see the ishing nets hung out? Some slope like balance-scales that hang from poles in place to prop the high, extended platform-bridges where the men keep watch to twist the rope. Some hang from bows of dories, where they cut the everlasting, glass sea-face that mirrors them in turn; and when the sun beats on the boats astern, and all the oars are shut down, stilled, huge radiance transigures them: Out of these waters rise great calices— lilies alame.

Praise such enchantment with joy, our soul. Worship its grace! As a translator he has published works by Paso- lini, Merini, Caproni, Porta, and Zanzotto among others. His own writings of poetry, reviews, criticism, and photography have been published in journals and in book form by a variety of presses. Sergio Atzeni — was an Italian writer from Sardinia. He lived and worked in Cagliari as a journalist for a number of the most important Sardinian newspapers.

His language shows a strong inluence of the Sardinian tongue coupled with a lively experimental streak, fusing literary Italian with the language of the Sardinian working- class. Vanni Macchiagodena, St. Martin San Martino , oak, h. Le immagi- ni non sono le stesse per tutti. Le mie immagini dipendono da molti fattori: livello di concentrazione sui ritmi della musica, tipo di compagnia, ricordo sgradevole e improvviso del maledetto capufficio, vicinanza di bambini rissosi, martello pneumatico nella strada sotto casa, non eccelso livello di cultura musi- cale Suoni africani, elettronica, voci umane fra il computer e il discosound.

Tessuto poliritmico veloce e ossessivo. Spazi di sola percussione. Finale in crescendo, violento. The images are not the same for everyone. Obviously, every single one of us has their own images, ones that depend on the singularity of their existence.

African sounds, electronics, human voices between computer and disco sounds. Fast and obsessive poly-rhythmic fab- ric. Spaces of percussion. Violent ending in crescendo. La suola, schiaccia una formica. Le formiche escono da una crepa fra due pietroni squadrati — e si sistemano sotto il piede. E conta: il tempo, alle formiche: uno, due, tre, quattro, ino a venti: altra formica, schiacciata. Massacra le formiche, e guarda il mare. Sembra uno che riflette, intensamente.

E schiaccia la formica. Non riflette. II mare e scuro, appena siorato dalle luci di una nave che va via. Dalla Mercedes lo guardano Il Grasso, e la sua banda: cinque paia di occhi che scoppiano, arrossati e gonfi. La Mercedes prosegue, lenta, per una decina di metri. Si ferma. Pare che pensi. Ma non pensa. Sem- bra un sacco pieno di roba molle, pronto ad aprirsi sulla pancia, Il Grasso.

Dal basso, vengono due gambe gonfie e flaccide. In cima, coperta dai capelli appiccicati, una palla di ciccia, che dentro ha due cerchietti neri che sembrano appuntati cogli spilli: due occhi, immobili, in una faccia di lardo. Nessuna espressione, tranne un ghigno ebete che non si muove mai. Trema continuamente, II Grasso: i muscoli e il lardo sono agitati da un ritmo proprio, nevrastenico, automatico.

It gifted me with a nocturnal image, inhabited by a mono- maniacal … The shoe of that man is high, up to the neck of the foot. The sole crushes an ant. Then another ant. The ants come out of a crack from between two large square stones and arrange themselves under the foot. He crushes them, one after the other, with metro- nomic regularity. The man, standing behind the grate of the port, looks out at the sea. And he counts: time, to the ants: one, two, three, four, up to twenty: another ant crushed.

He is tall, wrapped in some black thing that falls to his rain shoes, high up to the neck of the foot. He massacres ants, and looks out to the sea. He looks like someone who thinks about things in an intense manner.

Instead, he simply counts: to twenty. And he crushes ants. He never has, in his whole life. The sea is dark, lightly touched by the lights of a ship sailing away. The man looks out at the ship. Slowly, a yellow Mercedes passes behind the man. From the Mercedes the Fat Man and his gang look at him: ive pairs of exploding eyes, red and swollen. The Mercedes drives on slowly for another thirty or so feet. It stops. It looks like he is thinking.

But he is not. The Fat Man slides out of the back seat of the Mercedes: a slow process: irst one foot, then the other, slowly. He looks like a sack full of soft stuff, ready to split open at his belly. The Fat Man. Two swollen and laccid legs rise from below. Up above, covered by greasy hair, is a ball of lesh, in it are two little black circles that seems to be attached with pins: two immobile eyes, set into a face of lard.

His skin is yellowish, bruised. No expression, besides an unlinching moronic sneer. He trembles constantly, the Fat Man: his muscles and lard shake to their own rhythm, hyper, automatic. Guarda il mare. E ammazza le formiche. Dieci minuti, buoni, e lentissimi, prima che II Grasso apra bocca. So che devo aspettare al Polpo, ogni sera, per poterti parlare. Mi dispiace davvero, disturbarti Un attimo Ho bisogno di dieci chili. Tutti in una volta.

E subito. Per uno che parte fra due ore. A qualunque prezzo. Senza limite in alto. A me, mi basta il dieci del bisnass. Non potevo fare altro. Non pretendo di assistere alla vendita Io ti mando il bisnass, e aspetto in macchina Anche gratis. La voce: una specie di cantilena, un pianto.

Non si muove di un centimetro. The man, as if no-one else is there, beside him. He looks out to the sea. And kills ants. Ten minutes, a good ten, and very slow, before the Fat Man even opens his mouth. I know that I have to wait for the Octopus, every night, in order to talk to you.

He is quiet. A moment… The man looks out to sea, as if he were alone. I need 10 kg. All at once. And right away. For someone who is leaving in two hours. At whatever price. Without limits. The usual ten of the deal is enough for me. I am not expecting to be present at the sale… if you like. You, tell me yes. Even for free. The voice: a sort of whining, of weeping. A little longer, and the Fat Man is ready to pray.

The man counts: Twenty. He is immobile. Gli occhi sono semichiusi, come di uno che pensa lontananze. Le braccia sono lunghe, sui fianchi. La punta delle dita, arriva alle ginocchia. Non vole- vo. Vedo che disturbo. Vado subito via. II Grasso, rotola sulla grata, e a terra, sulle formiche uccise. Il Grasso, urla. Un pugno che sembra inguantato nel tirapugni schiaccia un coso che serviva a respirare, prima. Il primo pugno, spezza il setto nasale del Grasso.

Il secondo, trasforma la grata del porto nella parete di un mattatoio, sanguinante. Non: Uomo». Impara, stronzo: Signore. Quattro paia di occhi scoppiati stanno immobili, dentro una Mercedes. Elettronica addolcita da violino e sax struggenti, come in una tango Una rapina tranquilla. Forse anche dolce, in ambiente ovattato. Il inale del racconto va col inale di Jinx. Non riuscirei a spiegarlo: bisogna ascoltare il inale. His body is like a tree trunk. His eyes are almost closed shut, like one thinking of distant things.

His arms are very long, on his hips. The tips of his ingers, reach his knees. I had not meant to. The Fat Man rolls on the grating, and on the ground, on the dead ants. The Fat Man, screams. The man kneels down. A ist that seems to hold brass knuckles crushes a thing that once was meant to breathe.

The man grinds his teeth, behind his lips. The second, turns the grating of the port into a slaughterhouse wall, bloody. Learn it well, asshole: Sir. The man jumps over the grating, lightly leaning on his hands: a hop up, a hold, a vault, calmly and fast into the darkness of the port. Four pairs of eyes big and wide motionless, inside a Mercedes. That man, he is already gone. Electronic track sweetened by heart-rending violin and sax, like in a tango A quiet robbery.

Maybe even sweet, in a mufled environ- ment. The end of the story goes with the end of Jinx. Some call that man Cain. Not a trace of his real name. Chiedete, a chiun- que abbia un potere da difendere, anche minimo, quanti sono, i caini che cercano di portarglielo via. O a chi buca. Un pazzo che ha imparato la prudenza. Entra nel portone nero — odore di cavoli — di una casa antica. Appena oliati: in venti secondi puoi fare una guerra. Ha scelto una simca verde. Siede davanti, e controlla le armi.

Partecipa per inanziare un trafico di coca. Ha portato le bombe. Alle colline del Margine Rosso, la simca prende un viottolo di terra. Si ferma, al buio. Ask anyone who might have some power to defend, even the smallest, how many Cains have tried to wrest it away. Ask all the paranoid people in the city, those living behind barred and locked doors, with their tvs turned up high, so as not to hear the noises from the stairs.

Or those who shoot up. They know how much of a Cain attitude there is around. A young barbarian, from the immense periphery that has grown like a cancer around the Ciudad. He looks like he might be courageous: actually, he is insane and should be institutionalized, someone who counts ants, recites nursery rhymes, never reads a paper and, if he had a brother, would not trust him in the least.

A crazy man who has learned to be prudent. The Pula has never caught up with him. They have at time scaught his scent from a distance. He walks. He goes through the dark gate - the smell of caulilower - of some ancient home. Recently cleaned: you can have a war in twenty seconds. He walks through the alleyways of the old city..

The hunchback is the driver. He has chosen a green Simca. Moses leads the attack: the idea, is his. He sits in the front, and he controls the guns. The third one is Shrub. He is participating so as to inance his coke smuggling. He is a violent sadist. He brought the bombs.

II mitra sulle spalle, e maschere di cartapesta, in faccia, come a Carnevale. Arrivano al muro di cinta della casa: oltre il muro, un giardino e una lolla, e un salone: e decine di giocatori di carte. Tavoli verdi. Lampade a stelo.

Bar, lungo tutta una parete: per gente che si serve da sola: alcol e bicchieri. Al primo piano, le stanze, per gli amici che smettono tardi, e per quelli troppo ubriachi. Cento a letto. Si beve. Si gioca. Si parla poco. Calca un campanello bianco. Niente polizia: mai. Dopo dieci passi, spara.

Una raffica, un pelo sulle teste. Fermi, e zitti. Io non sparo. Se vi muovete, se parlate, se strisciate, sparo nel mucchio. It stops in the dark. The four get out of the car, they start their trek through ields of almonds and homes. They arrive at the wall that surrounds the house: over the wall, into a garden and a foyer, and a hall: and dozens of card players.

The habitual gathering of certain friends who love to play hard: the house, the wife, the gold watch ive percent of winnings go to the house. Green tables. Floor lamps. A bar, the length of a whole wall: self-service: alcohol and glasses. The toilets are like those in a club. On the irst loor, the rooms, for those friends who stay until late, and for those who are too drunk. One hundred per bed. They drink. They play. There is little talking. The Hunchback and Cain get over the wall, cross twelve feet of shadows, and slip through the open windows of the toilet, on the ground loor.

Moses follows the wall to the main gate. He rings a white bell. No security check, neither on the outside nor at the en- trance. Only friends come up here. No police. Moses pushes the gate. He goes inside. He takes ten steps and ires. A burst of gun ire slightly over their heads. Only the wife of the man who gambled away his wife cries; she did not hear the gun shots.

Another burst of gun shots. Be still and quiet. If you move, if you speak, if you try to crawl away I will shoot into the group. The ofice is on the second loor. I1 Cassiere sviene, quando vede il mitra che spunta dalla porta, e entra, seguito da un mostro giallo coi denti rossi — un Satana colorato male, sulla faccia del Gobbo.

Il denaro, nella cassa a muro, aperta. Arraffano, e ilano. La inestra del bagno, a piano terra. Il muro di cinta. Mentre salta, Caino spara un colpo. Il privato corre fuori, fra i giocatori immobili proprio mentre una granata scoppia sulla destra, e fa volare due auto ben parcheggiate. Una bomba cecoslovacca piomba fra i tavoli: un gran botto, molto fuoco, gente che scappa colla giacca in iamme. Il privato si tuffa a terra, colle mani sulla testa. Cespuglio ha fatto un buon lavoro, dal muro di cinta, colle bombe.

II Gobbo strattona la simca per quattro chi- lometri folli, di stradine di campagna. Fino a un casolare, sul bordo di una vigna. Odore di muffa, e di marcio. Divisione rapi- da. Quindici a Caino, Gobbo e Cespuglio. Altri cinque a Caino, per le armi che ha pagato, e che ora si riporta via, colla simca rubata. La getta nello stagno, quasi subito. Raccoglie una bicicletta. Sembra un operaio nottambulo, con quella borsa appesa sul manubrio.

La casa dei Cavoli, nella Ciudad. Detraggo dalla tua quota. The Cashier resides in the ofice, forced to work through the day and hold night hours: he dreams of a job with a construction irm, as an accountant. Usually, there is a private guard on duty in the Ofice. But at this moment the private is downstairs, crouching, and hoping that the nut-job shooting from the garden will come forward.

When he sees the gun come through the door, followed by a yellow monster with red teeth, a poorly colored Satan on his face, the Ca- shier faints. The money, in the open wall safe. They grab and run. The toilet window, on the ground loor. The surrounding wall. Cain ires a shot as he climbs. The private runs outside, through the immobile players, just as a grenade explodes on the right, and two well-parked cars are blown up.

A Czeck bomb falls among the tables: a huge explosion, people running away with their jackets on ire. The private dives to the ground, his hands on his head. A war has started. Shrub did a good job, with the bombs from the surrounding wall. The Hunchback races the Simca for four crazy kilometers of country roads.

Up to a farmhouse, at the edge of a vineyard. Smell of mold, and rot. A quick split. Thirty for Moses. Fifteen for Cain, Hunchback and Shrub. Another ive for Cain for the guns he bought, and is now taking away again with the stolen Simca. He drives it into the swamp, almost right away. He comes out of the water with wet feet. Grabs a bicycle. He looks like a night-shift worker, with his bag hanging on the handlebars. Or a farmer who has gotten up very early.

The Cab- bage house, in the Ciudad. There is a smell of cat piss now. Give me half of what I paid for them. Voci e coretti che citano forse, Simon e Garfunkel? Quando giocano col sud del continente Sandinista, una band di New York? Autoironia, citazioni, una morbida allegria. No: che razza di eroe sarebbe Rockmusic, Clash. Come avere le fanfare alla inestra, per Caino addormentato. Alle otto del mattino. Bisogna mangiare.

Terzo Pulmann. Una specie di Maratona del mattino, con le note della banda dei carabinieri, nella testa. E lo stomaco vuoto. Pasta-cappuccino-corsa, ultimi dieci metri a passo lento per recuperare il respiro, digerire la pasta, preparare le parole.

Non sono ancora le nove: puntualissimo. Voices and choir that quote maybe Simon and Garfunkel? When they play with the south of the continent … with only the slightest bit of irony. Sandinista, a band from New York?

Self- mockery, quotations, a soft cheerfulness. Self-mockery… No: what sort of a hero is he … or, maybe? A military band, a sort of parade for an anniversary, a national holiday, from Mrs. Like having trumpets at the window for a sleeping Cain. At eight in the morn- ing. A breathless dash to catch the eight-thirty bus, after a shower and a growling stomach - a real shock, for the shits - and then get- ting off at the piazza running to catch the other bus, always tense and a stomach ache.

I have to eat. A third bus. A sort of morning marathon, with the notes of the police band in my head. And an empty stomach. Croissant-cappuccino-dash off, the last ten meters at a slow pace to catch my breath, digest the croissant, and get my words in line. Type: wicked but honest woman: she doled out punches to the unpleasant ones with the same discipline and defended her extraordinary twenty-year old chastity.

Cain is in love. It is allowed, within the limits allowed a Cain: keeping an eye on the knife. Nothing more. Neither Cain nor Anyone else. Actually: Cain is the dearest of friends. Having said all this, what is left is the most important, at least for Cain: Daisy Duck is quite a dish: a woman of perfect propor- tions, movements, voices, eyes, class, everything. The bed could turn into quite a mess. Paperina, non ci sta. Giornata di riposo. Loro, non sudano. Corrono, affianco al mare, ancora quasi vuoto: i cittadini, si svegliano tardi, la domenica.

Ore dieci: Paperina ha voglia di fare una nuotata, e stoppa in un tratto fra mare e pineta, e si sveste di corsa. Nuovamente, correre. Lei, sempre dieci metri avanti. Una maledetta campionessa di nuoto. Ore undici e trenta: il momento beato di Caino.

Popolo di merda. Lenti come lumache, e viscidi e imbroglioni. Day of rest. In the warm June of these parts: the sirocco makes every step heavy and sweaty. They run along the still mostly empty sea: people wake up late on sundays.

Beach time is at noon. Again, at a run. Everything off, lying, and she is already in the water, laughing. She, always ten meters ahead. A damned swimming champion. They come out of the water, unfurl the towels, stretch out in the sun. Thirty seconds later, Daisy Duck is wide awake and is point- ing to some blondish guy who seems to be German: he walks to the water leaving behind unguarded a leather wallet a pair of shoes and a sort of rubber bag with beach wear. Oof, that was Rotten. Meh, it passed the time.

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How did you buy your ticket? View All Photos Movie Info. Set in North Carolina, "A Walk To Remember" follows the rite of passage of a jaded, aimless high school senior Shane West who falls in love with a guileless young woman Mandy Moore he and his friends once scorned. The two develop a powerful and inspirational relationship in which they discover truths that take most people a lifetime to learn.

Romance, Drama. Adam Shankman. Denise Di Novi , Hunt Lowry. Karen Janszen. Jan 25, wide. Jul 9, Warner Bros. Shane West Landon. Mandy Moore Jamie. Peter Coyote Reverend Sullivan. Daryl Hannah Cynthia. Lauren German Belinda. Clayne Crawford Dean. Al Thompson Eric. Jonathan Parks Jordan Walker. Matt Lutz Clay Gephardt. David Andrews Mr. David Lee Smith Dr. Adam Shankman Director.

Karen Janszen Screenwriter. Denise Di Novi Producer. Hunt Lowry Producer. Gaylord II Executive Producer. Casey La Scala Executive Producer. Edward L. McDonnell Executive Producer. Bill Johnson Executive Producer. Julio Macat Cinematographer. Emma E. Hickox Film Editing.

Doug Hall Production Design. Doug Hall Costume Design. Mervyn Warren Original Music. View All Critic Reviews Apr 03, This movie was recommended to me recently as a new Love Story, but after watching it I have to say that this coming-of-age teen romantic melodrama based on the romance novel of the same name by Nicholas Sparks, was a big disappointment. The story in the novel is set in the s while the film is set in , and it starts with a prank from a group of "cool" teenagers on a fellow high-school student, Clay Gephardt.

Everything goes wrong; the student finishes in a hospital with serious injuries, and popular but rebellious Landon Carter Shane West is threatened with expulsion.

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His dad hasn't been around so he's a bit reckless and wild, and also sometimes quite a je The movie was better. His dad hasn't been around so he's a bit reckless and wild, and also sometimes quite a jerk. Then he gets to know Jamie, daughter of the local pastor, and suddenly things begin to change. There's also this secret that Jamie has, and the movie kinda spills halfway through, whereas this book left it to the last minute which ended up being frustrating. But I think if you haven't seen the film it will be a real gut-wrenching twist that will give you all the feels you want from a Nicholas Sparks book.

I'm not usually into the mushy stuff, but I do really love how this relationship plays out. I love Jamie and how she treats everyone, and there's no pretence to it. She's just such a loving soul, and the way Landon begins to change, just by knowing her, is actually pretty beautiful.

But the novel is short so it doesn't quite expand on the love story and so the ending feels a little abrupt and unsatisfying. Overall, it's not a bad book - the characters are great and the story is sweet, but it just wasn't enough to win me over after the brilliance of the film.

Read the book before you see the film and you'll probably rate it a lot higher. It was short, but it would definitely be etched in my cranium for forever. In the movie, they were cast as Mandy Moore and Shane West. I watched the movie and loved it. I knew there was a book, but I only had a chance to read it recently. And I have to say that the book was just as good. Though I have to admit that I found the movie better than the book, but still both had their appeals.

Jamie Sullivan, is miss goody two shoes. While Jamie is the ultimate role model, Landon Carter is the complete opposite. It started with him having to go to the homecoming ball with a date. He would have to die first than be seen with his mom as his date. So he asked Jamie, the last person on the earth anyone would ask. But what started with a necessity ended up as a constant want. But who could resist Jamie, when she is so sweet? He just had to please her. We see how he was a boy who walked the earth without actually savoring and changing into a man who knew how to count his blessings and relish them for as long as he could.

Well, all I could say is: The love story was beautiful while it lasted. View all 10 comments. I haven't read this book in a really long time. I forgot how short it was, it took me about an hour and a half to get through. I still love it as much as I remember. Yes, its different than the movie, and I watched the movie first, many years ago View 2 comments. I am not a Nicholas Sparks fan.

I like my love stories with a little more pizzazz, wit and humour. I want the heroines to be headstrong and dripping with pithy comebacks. I expect the heroes to be unassuming to begin with and memorable by the time I shut the book. And most of all, I want So, keeping all these requirements in mind, A Walk To Remember is not my cup of tea. And yet, dare I use a dreadful pun? It helped that I I am not a Nicholas Sparks fan. It helped that I read the book and watched the movie based on it simultaneously.

In a nutshell, the book is about the quintessential bad boy falling for the Reverend's holier-than-thou daughter. It's about cheeky Landon Carter losing his heart to the angelic Jamie Sullivan. It's about one glorious summer in the lives of two teenagers and their journey to a heart-breaking end. Shane West plays Landon Carter in the movie. With the angular thrust of his eyebrows and his devilish smile, Shane West was better than the paperback Landon.

Mandy Moore plays the parish's golden girl, Jamie Sullivan. Let's just say that paperback Jamie was better than the celluloid one. Amalgamating the two sources, I give you my favourite moments: Spark 1: This may seem like a very pompous thing for Jamie to say, but taken into context with what her future holds It was symbolic of how hormones were not the governing factor in their relationship.

And it helps that it was Shane West doing the shoulder-nuzzle. Spark 3: The last line wasn't in the book. But it was a perfect addition. Bible carrying Jamie Sullivan was the girl brimming with faith in God's plan. Falling in love with Landon throws a curve ball that makes Jamie vulnerable. Spark 4: A version of Jamie's favourite passage from the Corinthians that she would have liked to be read out at her wedding. And which does get read at her wedding.

It was also, pretty much, the essence of Jamie Sullivan. Spark 5: This line sounds super-cheesy but considering the fact that Reverend Hegbert spent a good part of the book disapproving of Landon Carter and his heathen ways, it was pretty special for Landon to hear this at the end of the story. So yes, the book is not for those who want a fast-paced read. It's not for those who don't want their religion thrust in their faces. And give it a miss if you don't fancy bittersweet endings.

But, if you want a change of pace; if you want to imagine an entirely likeable Shane West as the appropriately cast Landon Carter falling fathoms deep in love; if you want to just savour a different facet of love I'm Rollie Romance is the least among the genres that I craved to try. Instead, I stumbled upon reading this love story book. A risk indeed to read a different genre especially when it exempts among the genres you always thinks about.

Thus, it doesn't just take twenty gulps to risk for it but takes time and sweat to decide the dilemma whether to give it a shot or not. Lately, I decided to widen my braced genres and I thought this book is worth the risk t I'm Rollie Lately, I decided to widen my braced genres and I thought this book is worth the risk to try.

So as a love story as this title represents, I'm afraid that the further words I will emancipate may loosen up the tightness of the statement I previously, in my reviews, professed. The life of Landon Carter during has been brought back by his memories. Being a son of congressman, who he rarely see in their house in a year, is normal. Being with his friends Eric and Margaret are even normal for him, for he used to be with them since grade school.

But being the Student Body President is another thing, while signing up for Drama Class is definitely not his thing. Jamie Sullivan is surely the last girl in the world Landon wanted to marry but absolutely not the last girl to ask as a date for the school's homecoming. As Landon's world becomes closer to Jamie's, he'll find a plan he never thought fated for him. I was sure then before I tried that I wouldn't like this book, though I was in the mood to read this kind of book.

The moment I fixed my eyes onto the surface of the first page of the book's prologue, my feet as if set foot onto the world of what I was reading. I became the main character himself. Marvelous really it is to say how amazing the approach of the main character's perspective to me as a reader. Truly effective. A perfect thing to add up is that the perspective used in the story is from guy's character, considering that it gives perfect justice to how a guy thinks, utters, and acts.

The story composes of just simple elements: The typical story of ugly duckling that turns into swan; typical story of a jerk guy who fell in love to the swan; and a typical story of a man who'll do anything for love.

The magic of how it turned out to be good is the summation of all those factors. Moreover, Sparks really used the overused concepts perfectly during the shifting of events, which of course a positive move for the book to become better. I'm told that the movie is way better than the book. Granted, for I am one of those unfortunates who haven't watched the movie yet. Yes, I did not itch to watch the movie the moment it had been shown in cinemas nor did I eagerly wait for it in movie cable channels.

But I'm very much glad, for I think that choosing to read first the book over watching the movie is one way or another, a smart decision. I honestly admire Sparks for writing down the solid description of Jamie Sullivan, yet unknowingly behind her image is a great mystery.

That despite of the best answer a normal person could offer to the reason of her action, there is still hidden truth behind it that alters the nearest possibility. The greatest thing I liked about this book is the profound messages of the story beyond what are written, though some are already given. I liked how faith works at Jamie, that even though everything has been taken from her, she dignifies how her faith still remains.

I was also touched at how simply a very kind person could turn the people oppositely to what they were. There is even presence of the true effects of love, which it leads the in love human to think either sane or insane. And the story, in a way, emphasizes how humans should give attention, importance and deeper understanding on the things that surround them not until it's too late.

And the best of all is how faith can bring out the miracle to the surface out of the deepest pit. I admit that there were many times the book led me on the verge of tears. For I reckon that this book, no matter how cold-hearted I am, is no wonder a heart-moving one. View all 66 comments. A very emotional story that will rip your heart. I was so engrossed in the book where I was not aware until the story end.

A very touching romance. View all 3 comments. You have a vague premonition of the emotional wreckage you'll suffer in no time at all. Yet you go against your sense of foreboding and end up having an irreparably broken heart at the end. This recapitulates my bittersweet experience reading A Walk to Remember.

Nicholas Sparks used to be too mainstream and overrated an author for my taste. I decided to read this novel on a whim after watching the movie twice and being devastatingly impacted by Jamie's agony. Landon is a popular, rich guy who makes a habit of discreetly picking on Jamie, the priest's daughter who does not know how to match her clothes, does not wear any cosmetics and spends time helping wounded animals, hanging around with her lonely father, praying for her community and donating money to the orphanage.

Only when Landon is left with no choice but to ask Jamie to prom, do they start slowly getting dangerously close. They embark on the most beautiful, short journey which is about to end before it even started when Jamie announces her sickness to Landon. In contrast with the movie, the novel is narrated by Landon.

Getting inside Landon's head is the most practical narrative technique given his obliviousness to Jamie's dying, which holds readers' interest. In that way the mystery called Jamie is gradually unfolded before our eyes and when she lets the cat out of the bag all her quirkiness and peculiarities are decoded. Landon is a character who matures a lot throughout the novel.

I admit that his consenting to others' patronizing treatment of Jamie, his not wanting to be seen with her and his having a sudden outburst when the reasons for his befriending her are elucidated aggravated me. His telling her that he is forced to spend time with her and sees her as a burden gave me an uncontrollable, unrestrainable urge to throw something hard at him.

Nevertheless, his emotional heartache which led him to change and scarred him for life compensated for the hideousness of his prejudices against Jamie at the beginning of the story. Landon's knocking on his father's door and pleading with him to save Jamie, taking into account the fact that years had elapsed without them talking, was one of the most powerful scenes in the movie which was not emphasized in the novel. Jamie was an unconventionally beautiful heroine who had a heavy cross to bear.

However, she insisted on looking on the bright side because of her faith, the only thing she had left. Her decay near the end when her sickness was exacerbated and was not even able to move without painkillers was a punch to the gut. I cannot choose between the book and the movie. Both were tearjerkers despite the slight differences between them.

As regards the novel, A Walk to Remember is a heartbreaking, gut-wrenching page-turner I am not likely to ever forget. I only picked up this book from the library because they didn't have the specific books I was looking for in, so I walked through the aisles and randomly selected a few so the trip wasn't a waste. When I saw it on the shelf, I remembered that someone a while ago had recommended that I read it and "The Notebook" by Nicholas Sparks, and because books are almost always better than the movie versions, I decided to give it a shot.

I actually liked the movie when I saw it. I am a sappy girl like that s I only picked up this book from the library because they didn't have the specific books I was looking for in, so I walked through the aisles and randomly selected a few so the trip wasn't a waste. I am a sappy girl like that sometimes. I don't read romance novels, and I don't watch chick flicks like they are going out of style, but Dirty Dancing will always be one of my favourite movies, because I grew up watching it over and over.

So, sometimes I fall in love with a sappy story. In some ways I prefer the movie to the book, which might be only because I had seen it before I read it. I struggled with whether to give it two or three stars, because I felt like it was more than just "ok", it was decent, but when I look back at other books I had given three stars to, I really did not feel like it was on par with them. I would have probably loved this had I read it when I was thirteen or fourteen.

Maybe I have gotten more cynical over time, or maybe it's just that I would have related more at that age, I don't know, but as sweet as the storyline was, it just didn't pull on my heartstrings like it clearly was meant to. I know I teared up during the movie, but the book didn't do it for me for some reason. I don't think it was because I already knew what was going to happen - it would have been pretty obvious where it was heading had I not ever seen the movie, and I have re-read books before and still been as touched as the first time.

I think it just fell slightly short in capturing the tender moments, and that is where the movie was able to pick it up and elaborate. I wouldn't recommend it necessarily to anyone, but I also wouldn't suggest to someone that they shouldn't read it. I've definitely read worse.

This book This book is so pure, you can touch the love that surrounds it. I fell for it I fell with all that I am and I always will. A walk to remember has a great movie adaptation. I cry every time I watch it. And again, time changes the interpretation one person may have about the story. I read this book in one day in I loved it even then. But rereading it The characters have such a beautiful bond, such a pure love and such an amazing storyline that erases the sadness.

Time is short, but then again, the important thing is that the characters choose to live. To live through love and also, through the word of God. This is the type of book I would never get tired of. Because this book left a mark on my heart.

An imprint. A forever. My favourite part here is the part where Landon starts to change.. My only problem was that I felt their love but I couldnt feel their sorrow.. Am I making sense? Eventhough I really liked this book, I have to say, I had expected a little more when I first started it In every way, a walk to remember. The writing was easy and the plot wasn't too complicated.

At first, Landon's character really pissed me off 'It was, I remembered thinking, the most difficult walk anyone ever had to make. At first, Landon's character really pissed me off but he grew to be okay. And Jamie was just such a sweetheart I couldn't help but like her.

In my opinion, the story lacked any sense of originality but it was an easy read and enjoyable nevertheless. The movie meant a lot to me than the book did. Recommended to Anne by: Sarah - Thornton's girl. Shelves: american-literature , favorites , gentleman-like-heroes , precious-little-gems , love-heroine , romance , tbr-challenge , 20th-century , owned , contemporary.

I love A Walk to Remember. Simply love it. And I don't often say this, but the movie was better. I loved this book, and it had many wonderful elements that the movie lacked, but somehow it didn't come get me the way the movie never fails to do. I never cry at movies, as in never ask Becca - she'll gladly give you a ready confirmation!

I've seen it countless times and love it so much that I thought it was finally time to give the boo I love A Walk to Remember. I've seen it countless times and love it so much that I thought it was finally time to give the book a shot. Typically I always read the book before watching the movie, but that was one I saw first, and didn't even think of reading the book until I stumbled across a used copy in a thrift store.

I tend to stay away from contemporary romance and I generally hate YA novels, but I was very happy when I started reading to discover that it was set in the late 's. I loved the small-town atmosphere, and I was quickly swept away into the story, even though I knew most of it and who it would end. Comparing book and movie is always fun, and it was very interesting to see how they'd changed certain things to better suit it to the screen, but I must say that I absolutely loved all the orphanage-related parts in the book.

It was my favourite aspect of the story compared to the movie because it was so touching, and so beautiful, and really added a new dimension to the high school feel of the book. Jamie Sullivan is one of the most inspiring characters ever, because she is so simple and uncomplicated and so easy to follow. She's sweet and kind, and sure, she appears "saintly", but she's really just a girl who figured out early on what living for God truly means, and how important it is to cling to one's faith no matter what others are thinking or doing around you.

I love her loyalty, her kindness, her integrity, her generosity and the way she makes it sound so very easy to be good. She's so loveable, and so inspiring! The charm of this lovely novel all lies in its simplicity and purity; the quiet setting, the easy plot, the everyday characters and the beautiful and breathtaking, yet uncomplicated love story that'll make you believe in the most wonderful of fairy-tales, without necessitating the encumbrances of ladies stuck in high towers, charming princes on white horses, madcap passions and flowery love declarations.

Just one of the most beautiful, simple, pure and wholesome love stories ever written, which truly deserves to go down in history alongside Romeo and Juliet , Pride and Prejudice , Wuthering Heights and the likes. I never thought I'd love a YA book this much, but seriously, it's just amazing.

And I finally understand the title, because of how the ending was written. Makes a lot more sense now! View all 20 comments. Read prior to GR. I just bought this last week for my daughter, so you never know. I may re-read. Loved the movie too, the lesser known Shane West was a fave from my very most fave show ER.

Sweet, innocent and hopeful. Amore sotto i baffi Giuliano Taviani Carmelo Travia. Vivo del mio amore I rumori del tempo. Le stagioni del nostro amore I Giganti. I giorni del non amore Carmine Torchia. Amore mio Lalla Auria Marchetti. Amore o forse no Aldo De Scalzi Pivio.

I folletti dei cinque passi Alberto Grollo. Pruvamm ancora Seby Patan. Sintonizzati Seby Patan. Lui Seby Patan. Un amore sincero Walter Montanaro I ragazzi del cuore. Mille passi Marco e I Niagara. Allegro amore mio Luisa Rocchi Raffaele Rocchi. Tutti i sentieri del Signore sono amore e fedelt Massimo Versaci. Quando passi di qui Gigetto Del Bicchiere.

Smisuratamente Amore Dal vivo Margherita Coralluzzo.

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