Only dead Italians

Only dead Italians wre deemed worthy of attention, the longer dead the more worthy. The 18th century Italy of foreign desires, country of dead languages, mute stones and more dead Italians, was never so dissmilar from the Italians Italy. Of course, travellers could not help also seeing the gay, profane and corrupt reality, which was all around them. It didn't disturb them, it shocked a few and seduced many. They had a wonderful time. They loved it. But few would admit they'd come mainly for the fun of mingling with such contemptible people. Theirs was an earnest quest for knowledge, only rarely interrupted by inevitable interludes of immorality. The contact with the unruly country somehow taught them that everything in art and life was to be the result of control, a show of man's mastery over accident, excesses, storms of passion and chaos. We now suspect that foreigners in the 18th and 19th century unconsciously came to enjoy the interludes of fun among the live Italians more than the lessons of ancient history among the dead Italians. Few would admit it. Very few tried to analyse the nature of the pleasures they found in watching Italians live their noisy lives, mingling with them and accepting their indulgent habits. This sense of liberation they experience was, first of all, a distinct physical sensation they felt the moment they passed the frontier, a muted excitement, a quickening of the senses. Many were tempted to think the translation of everyday scenes into durable masterpieces was far easier in Italy, were the distance between nature and aert was shorter, and more easily bridged than in less picturesque and more familiar parts of the world. But rapture and delight weren't pure, they were mixed with other sensations, different, disturbing and alarming. There was, for example, the bitter pleasure of pitying and despising the Italians. They were oppressed by corrupt, inept, and avaricious tyrannies. Still, one couldn't help thinking that they deserved them. They seemed to lack all the virtues which had made other ppl great. O. Welles acutely observed that Italy is full of actors, all of them, in fact; there are only a handful of bad ones, and they are all on the stage and in the films. Travelling to Italy gave middle-age and resigned people the sensation of being,if not young again, at least daring and pleasing to others, and the illusion that they could still bite the fruits of life with their false teeth. It makes unwanted people feel wanted, unimportant ones feel important, and purposeless people believe that the real way to live intelligently is to have no earnest purpose in life. The trickery has uprooted whatever faith in man's integrity had endured til now. Disgusted with the pretense of holiness and the reality of nastiness, each equally omnipresent, has left Italy lifeless form the languid atmospheres, the vital principle of which has been used up long ago, or corrupted by the myriads-left her crushed down in spirit with the desolation of her ruin and the hopelessness of her future-left her, in short, hating her with all our might, and adding our inidvidual curse to the infinite anathema which her old crimes has unmistakably brought down. There are the ambitious handsome young mean who arrive from the provinces with a few lire, mangare to make a few friends, meet a powerful person, and through them, slowly rise like gas bubbles of putrefaction in a muddy marsh. You can chgeck their rising practically day by day. How long does it take ? Sometimes just the time to introduce a millionaire to an independent film producer and a pretty actress, or a high gvmnt official to a contractor of public works. There are flocks of unknown starlets who walk back and forth hoping to be noticed by one of the new great directors. After a while, they merely hope to be noticed by any old director. The old actresses, often drunk (how lovely and frail they were only yesterday), come more often, accompanied by insolent young lovers. Well dressed young men stroll her with feline steps to look disdainfully at women; Here you can follow what goes on by watching faces. You can recognize the newly born flirtation or the tired old liason; Ugly things must be hidden, tragic facts swept under the carpet. All made to sparkle. These practices were not developed by people who found life rewarding, but by a pessimistic, realistic, resigned people. Thery believe man's ills can'rt be cured but only assuaged , catastrophes cannot averted but only mitigated. They prefer to glide elegantly over the surface of life and leave the depths unplumbed. Garbo is another Italian word with no easy translation. It can be the careful circusmpection with which one slowly changes political alliance when things are on the verge of becoming dangerous. Nobody in Italy confesses to be 'an average man'; everybody persuades himself he's one of the gods' favourite sons Only dead Italians wre deemed worthy of attention, the longer dead the more worthy. The 18th century Italy of foreign desires, country of dead languages, mute stones and more dead Italians, was never so dissmilar from the Italians Italy. Of course, travellers could not help also seeing the gay, profane and corrupt reality, which was all around them. It didn't disturb them, it shocked a few and seduced many. They had a wonderful time. They loved it. But few would admit they'd come mainly for the fun of mingling with such contemptible people. Theors was an earnest quest for knowledge, only rarely interrupted by inevitable interludes of immorality. The contact wuith the unruly country somehow taught them that everything in art and life was to be the result of control, a show of man's mastery over accident, excesses, storms of passion and chaos. We now suspect that foreigners in the 18th and 19th century unconsciously came to enjoy the interludes of fun among the live Italians more than the lessons of ancient history among the dead Italians. Few would admit it. Very few tried to analyse the nature of the pleasures they found in watcing Italains live their noisy lives, mingling with them and accepting their indulgent habits. This sense of liberation they experience was, first of all, a distinct physical sensation they felt the moment they passed the frontier, a muted excitement, a quickeneing of the senses. Many were tempted to think the translation of everyday scenes into durable masterpieces was far easier in Italy, were the distance between nature and aert was shorter, and more easily bridged than in less picturesque and more familiar parts of the world. But rapture and delight weren't pure, they were mixed with other sensations, different, disturbing and alarming. There was, for example, the bitter pleasure of pitying and despising the Italians. They were oppressed by corrupt, inept, and avaricious tyrannies. Still, one couldn't help thinking that they deserved them. They seemed to lack all the virtues which had made other ppl great. O. Welles acutely observed that Italy is full of actors, all of them, in fact; there are only a handful of bad ones, and they are all on the stage and in the films. Travelling to Italy gave middle-age and resigned people the sensation of being,if not young again, at least daring and pleasing to others, and the illusion that they could still bite the fruits of life with their false teeth. It makes unwanted people feel wanted, unimportant ones feel important, and purposeless people believe that the real way to live intelligently is to have no earnest purpose in life. The trickery has uprooted whatever faith in man's integrity had endured til now. Disgusted with the pretense of holiness and the reality of nastiness, each equally omnipresent, has left Italy lifeless form the languid atmospheres, the vital principle of which has been used up long ago, or corrupted by the myriads-left her crushed down in spirit with the desolation of her ruin and the hoplessness of her future-left her, in short, hating her with all our might, and adding our inidvidual curse to the infinite anathema which her old crimes has unmistakably brought down. There are the ambitious handsome young mean who arrive from the provinces with a few lire, mangare to make a few friends, meet a powerful person, and through them, slowly rise like gass bubbles of putrefaction in a muddy marsh. You can chgeck their rising practically day by day. How long does it take ? Sometimes just the time to introduce a millionaire to an independent film producer and apretty actress, or a high gvmnt official to a contractor of public works. There are flocks of unknown starlets who walk back and forth hoping to be noticed by one of the new great directors. After a while, they merely hope to be noticed by any old director. The old actresses, often drunk (how lovely and frail they were only yesterday), come more often, accompanied by insolent young lovers. Well dressed young men stroll her with feline steps to look disdainfully at women; Here you can follow what goes on by watching faces. You can recognize the newly born flirtation or the tired old liason; Ugly things must be hidden, tragic facts swept under the carpet. All made to sparkle. These practices were not developed by people who found life rewarding, but by a pessimistic, realistic, resigned people. Thery believe man's ills can'rt be cured but only assuaged , catastrophes cannot averted but only mitigated. They prefer to glide elegantly over the surface of life and leave the depths unplumbed. Garbo is another Italian word with no easy translation. It can be the careful circusmpection with which one slowly changes political alliance when things are on the verge of becoming dangerous. Nobody in Italy confesses to be 'an average man'; everybody persuades himself he's one of the gods' favourite sons. Of course they never lied. Both pictures were true. Often, to put up a show becomes the only pathetic way to revolt against destiny, face life's injustices with one of the few weapons available