Translation: Excerpt from Zeno's Conscience, Part 1

René Magritte, Le donateur heureux, 1966

This is Bora Mici's original translation from Italian into English of an excerpt from the 20th-century novel La Coscienza di Zeno, Zeno's Conscience, by Italo Svevo. The following are actually two excerpts published as one continuous reflection on life, whether it is fair or unfair, good or bad, and all the things in between. The main character, Zeno, is a person full of good resolve, who has lived his life in between the extremes he describes and who eventually comes to the conclusion that he has always lived according to love and that has saved him, despite his many vacillations, distractedness and little jealousies. The novel is a somewhat picaresque journey into Zeno's reflections as he finds himself in quirky and pathos-laden situations which he manages with improvised dexterity.

Excerpt from La Coscienza di Zeno, Part 1,  translated by Bora Mici   

The next day, the obstetrician who was taking care of Ada asked for the help of Dr. Paoli, who immediately pronounced the word that I had not been able to say: Morbus Basedowii. Guido told me about it, describing the illness in a learned fashion and sympathizing with Ada who was suffering a lot. Without any ill will, I thought his compassion and science were not great. He assumed a heartfelt look when he spoke of his wife, but when he dictated letters for Carmen, he displayed all the joy of living and imparting lessons; he also thought that the man that had lent his name to the illness was the Basedow who had been Goethe’s friend, while when I looked up that illness in the encyclopedia, I immediately figured out that it was someone else.

What a greatly important illness that of Basedow! For me it was most important to have learned about it. I studied it in various monographs and thought I had just discovered the secret of our organism. I think that in many people, just as with me, there are periods of time when certain ideas occupy and encumber the whole mind, shutting out other things. But the same thing happens to society too! First it lives on Darwin, after having lived on Robespierre and Napoleon, and then on Liebig or maybe Leopardi, when it’s not Bismarck that rules over the whole cosmos!

But I am the only one who lived on Basedow! It seemed to me that it had brought to the fore the roots of life, which is made in the following way: all organisms can be distributed on a line, on one end of which is the illness of Basedow, which implies the most ample, crazy consumption of the vital force at a precipitous pace, a rapid heartbeat, and at the other end are the organisms who are impoverished because of an organic avarice, destined to perish of an illness that would seem to be exhaustion but in fact is sedentariness. The right balance between the two illnesses is at the center and is improperly designated as good health, which is nothing but a stopover. And between the center and one extremity—that of Basedow—fall all of those who are exasperated and whose lives are consumed by great desires, ambitions, pleasures and work too, and on the other those who only put crumbs on their plate and save in preparation for that abject longevity that would seem a burden to society. It turns out that this burden is also necessary. Society goes forth because the Basedowans push it forward, and it does not fall because the others hold it in place. I am convinced that if we wanted to build a society, we could have done so in a much simpler way, but this is how it’s made, with the goiter at one of its ends and edema at the other, and there’s no fixing it. In the middle are those who are starting to develop either a goiter or an edema and along the whole line, for all of humanity, absolute good health is missing.

…………………………

“Life is hard and unfair!”

It seemed to me that I was not allowed to say a single word that might suggest any kind of judgement on my part about him and Ada. But it seemed to me that I still needed to say something. He had ended up speaking about life and had saddled it with two predicates that were not guilty of excessive originality. I was able to come up with something even better precisely because I had decided to criticize what he had said. So many times we say things following the sound of the words, as they relate to each other by chance. Then, as soon as you try to see if what was being said was worth the breath expended, sometimes you discover that the random association has given birth to an idea. I said, “Life is neither good or bad, but original!”

When I thought about it, it seemed to me like I had said something important. Labeled in such a way, life seemed so new that I began looking at it as if I had seen it for the first time with its gaseous bodies, fluids and solids. If I had described it to someone who was not used to it and therefore lacked our common sense, he would have been breathless before the enormous structure without a purpose. He would have asked me, “But how do you put up with it?” And having been informed about every single detail, from those celestial bodies hanging up there so that they can be seen but not touched all the way to the mystery of death, he would have certainly exclaimed: “Very original!”

“Life is original,” laughed Guido. “Where did you read that?”

I did not think it was important to reassure him that I had not read it anywhere because otherwise my words would have been less significant to him. But the more I thought about it, the more original I found life. And it was not even necessary to look at it from the outside to see that it was put together in such a bizarre way. It was enough to remember all the things us men expect of life in order to see it as so strange as to arrive to the conclusion that maybe man ended up inside of it by mistake and that does not belong there.

Without having colluded about the direction our walk would take, we came to the incline of via Belvedere just like before. Once he had found the short wall on which he had laid down that other night, Guido climbed on it and lay down just like before. He was singling softly, perhaps always oppressed by his thoughts, and he certainly meditated on the inexorable numbers of his accounting. As for me, I remembered that I had wanted to kill him in that very place, and comparing my feelings then with my current ones, I was admiring once again the incomparable originality of life. However, I suddenly remembered that just a little while ago, our of an ambitious whim, I had railed against the poor Guido, and on one of the worst days of his life. I dedicated myself to a search: without great pain I was witnessing the torture that my careful accounting was inflicting on Guido, and a curious doubt came over me after a curious memory. The doubt was whether I was good or bad. The memory was provoked suddenly by the doubt, which was not new: I saw myself as a child and I was dressed (I am certain) in short skirts, and I raised my face to ask my mother who was smiling: “And I good or bad?” At that time, the doubt must have been inspired in the child’s mind by many of those who had called him good and the many others whom, jokingly, had qualified him as bad. There was no reason to wonder why the child had been burdened by that dilemma. Oh, the incomparable originality of life! It was amazing that the doubt that had already been inflicted on the child in such a puerile way had not been resolved by the adult, who had already crossed into midlife.

In the foggy night, exactly in that place where I had wanted to kill him once, that doubt deeply anguished me. Certainly when the child had felt that doubt err in his mind, his head only recently liberated from the bonnet, he had not suffered much because children are told that one can be cured from being bad. In order to free myself from so much anguish, I wanted to believe it again, and I succeeded.

If I had not succeeded, I would have had to cry for Guido and for myself, and for our most sad life. The resolution renewed the illusion! The resolution was to stand by Guido’s side and to collaborate with him in the growth of his business, on which his life and the life of his family depended, and all this without any kind of profit for myself. I glimpsed the possibility of rushing, desiring and studying for him, and I accepted the possibility of becoming, in order to help him, a great, an enterprising, a brilliant negotiator. That’s what I thought on that foggy night of this very original life!

The Man Who Wore the News

Barbara Kruger, We don't need another hero, 1987

This is Bora Mici's original text, written in Italian, which may or may not contain a few minor mistakes, and which will be difficult to translate with an AI translator. It presents a parody of a person who does not exist in real life by employing vocabulary learned while listening to the news in Italian and to Italian-language podcasts. As a result, it might give you the impression that the character the story describes is modeled on real-life characters, since he embodies the spirit of the times, but I assure you he does not exist. The text began as a mere vocabulary-learning exercise and transformed into an endeavor of literary ambition. I had tried this kind of exercise once before using French vocabulary on a French test at the University of Maryland, and I found that it gave me a great amount of playful liberty with words. For this particular piece of writing, I just used the words in the order they appeared in my notes, which also represents a certain kind of underlying logical structure, since the sources I drew the unknown vocabulary from mostly discussed current events from around the world.  

Giovanni è una persona smaccatamente attendista. Il suo attendismo è inviso ai suoi amici che non vogliono più fare da sponda per lui. Hanno cercato di ricompattarsi come gruppo, ma in fin dei conti, Giovanni pensa soltanto a se stesso. Una volta ha fatto costruire uno striscione sul quale era scritto “Giovanni prima di tutti gli altri”, proprio come quei leader populisti che vogliono mettere in avanti la priorità del proprio partito e di conseguenza del proprio paese. Gli amici di Giovanni hanno deciso di fare un piccolo smistamento e provare di toglierlo dal gruppo. Hanno deciso di andare al mare con lui, di metterlo su un gommone col maglioncino giallo che gli aveva confezionato la nonna, molto amata da lui, di dargli alcune zucchine grigliate per poter nutrirsi durante lo smarrimento meritato, ma lui ha capito subito il tranello in cui lo cacciavano ed ha intimato che non fosse coerente con la loro amicizia disinteressata e che non valeva. E poi sarebbe stata una soluzione contingente. Invece di andare al mare, Giovanni ha intrapreso di leggere un testo ostico, ad alta voce, e farne una carrellata per gli amici e mandarli a quel paese perché potessero scovare dalla sabbia della sua coscienza un tesoro facoltoso di cui lui era già prettamente assuefatto. E doveroso menzionare che si rifaceva ai suoi maestri più colti di scienze umane, compresa la psicologia e la letteratura. I suoi amici avevano pensato di proporgli così un capestro da cui non poteva più slegarsi, ma lui si dimostrò propositivo, al netto, dobbiamo aggiungere, di voler sempre ribaltare le carte in tavola. Non si sapeva più dove lo avesse celato quel gruzzolo di sapienza che aveva acquisito col tempo adagio adagio, e forse sarebbe stato il caso di fare appello ad un umarell per dare le istruzioni che occorrevano ai ragazzi. Per forza, si trovavano costretti ad edificare il loro baluardo di avanguardia contro la sapienza faticosa e preponderante di Giovanni. Di recente, lo ritenevano piuttosto istrionico e non del tutto canonico, anche se Giovanni gli esortava di appuntare senza barare tutto ciò che cercasse di trasmettere a loro. Perorava che, dopo tutto, la resilienza vuol dire piegarsi senza spezzarsi, e Giovanni se ne intendeva di queste cose. Puntava la distensione e la riscossa del gruppetto, anche se era chiaro che allargava le maglie della giustizia a suo compiacimento. Era un furbo che faceva finta di andare alla volta dei suoi addetti, ma forse non se ne accorgeva nemmeno della sua duplicità. Al netto del suo atteggiamento protagonista, li considerava i suoi soci più cari e voleva plasmare la loro amicizia, adibirla, senza però millantare, mi raccomando, in un ateneo. Auspicava la loro adesione, e d’acchito, non sembrava troppo esigente. Purtroppo agiva sempre a scapito degli altri e intasava le loro vie d'uscita. Li faceva intrappolare nel suo gorgo ai prezzi stracciati, che campeggiavano in bella mostra su un affiche con una dicitura sgradevole annunciando la degenza, semmai non gli si fosse dato retta. Brandendo il cartellone dal balcone che dava su un piccolo spiazzo fuori casa sua, invocava i suoi discepoli, cercando come sempre di accreditarsi con loro, intercalando nei suoi discorsi gustosi ed espansivi questioni di atteggiamenti sindacabili da parte dei suoi rivali. Siamo lì, diceva, tutto fiero di sé, dobbiamo accendere un faro su queste velleità raffazzonate di quel tizio che sempre ordisce ai danni della buona giustizia, di cui noi stessi abbiamo fatto le lodi, pensando di aver imbroccato l’argomento anche se tutti sospettavano che non fosse altro che una macchietta bislacca e se la ridevano sotto i baffi. Aveva un’ossessione morbosa col delitto dell’appropriazione indebita, cercava sempre aggravanti, ma siccome non voleva essere percepito nemmeno come un foriero di verità indiscutibili, era chiaro o no, che si trattasse di un fifone che incollava la propria immagine di sé, come uomo da bene, sulla realtà poco gradevole. Così, si era ritagliato un posticino sicuro in mezzo al caos quotidiano della sua città e badava sempre ad appropriarsi una quota di mercato che andava sempre incrementando, accolta in sottintese scoppiettate di riso. Seppure la sua casa si trovasse vicino alla Borsa e potesse essere informato da subito di potenziali flessioni, lasciava intendere di collocarsi dall’altra parte della barricata per far sì che fosse caldeggiato da quelli che curiosavano nei suoi affari. Spesso con i suoi soci intavolava discorsi a far tremare i polsi, scattenandosi delirante come se fosse in procinto di vedersi costretto a firmare un accordo svantaggioso. Che stramboide, diceva la gente. Altri ammiravano il suo impeto dilagante e dicevano sottovoce, ma che figo, ammazza! La calca si faceva sempre più fitta quando saliva in cattedra anche se non gli riusciva mai di fare altro che scalfire la superficie dell’argomento prescelto, conseguendo così di trovarsi conciato male davanti alla ciurma, che comunque si beveva le sue parole come vino sfuso. Si era messo in testa di debellare la reputazione dei suoi nemici, inalberandosi e squadernandosi, spalancando le braccia per far intravedere le sue ascelle sfrangiate e sbiadite dal tanto sudore che ci metteva per confutare le menzogne sulla sua persona, tra cui si potevano annoverare quelle sul afflato fatiscente dei rivali. Perorava spesso della sua impresa, che beninteso, non mirasse il tornaconto, bensì si impegnasse a non lasciare le cose andare in tilt, che si desse per spacciato lo sforzo quotidiano della gente per edificare quel tempio alla sapienza. Dal suo leggio che fungeva da posto investito dell’autorità suprema, quasi quasi si potrebbe dire che avesse raggiunto il prestigio del papa quando professava la carità e l’umiltà dal balcone della San Pietro, rivolgendosi alle masse nel suo discorso famosissimo dell’urbi et orbi. Insomma, Giovanni non cercava di tirare le somme di quanto fossero divenuti colti i suoi coetanei, bensì raccomandava loro un cambio di marcia per ottenere quella margine risicata in più, che avrebbe permesso loro di bollarsi gente di cultura. A questo proposito faceva aleggiare una nube florida di speranza che somigliava, se esaminata da vicino, ad una spocchiosa avvampata che sbaciucchiava in aria, che col passare del tempo, sarebbe poi divenuta una rimbambita bitorzoluta che nessuno avrebbe più adorato, ma che tuttora sbottava di scatto i suoi rincari e sbuffava di non essere riconosciuta a pieno titolo come la guida suprema per antonomasia. Non si sapeva a chi dovesse questa sua convinzione, quale mutuato nascondesse nel cassone della sua macchina con una marcia in più. Tuttavia era calzante la sua passione senza fronzoli, come lui credesse, che riusciva comunque a gasare la folla. Però come ve lo potete immaginare, si diceva intorno, che fosse un bacchettone, che avesse un pallino per la mistificazione, che esercitava tramite grossolani strafalcioni sui propri pargoli, costringendoli a farsi il mazzo. Siccome nessuno voleva che si riprendesse dallo smacco cagionato dalla loro andatura a rilento, si stipulava il conclamato divieto di impicciarsi platealmente nei affari del capo, che tra l’atro, si deve riconoscere una volta per tutto, portava i vestiti nuovi del re. In ultima istanza siamo costretti anche a dargli retta, tirando un grandissimo fiatone di sollievo, perché il suo indole non era del tutto congeniale al coinvolgimento in malefatta. Si vedeva chiaramente che aveva soltanto bisogno di convincersi che poteva portare a termine le sue illusioni, frutto di un farneticare sfizioso, per poi defilarsi con un’umiltà sentitissima e dare spago allo stuolo ferale che gli pareva dignitoso e bonario, quando invece si trattava di arraffoni disillusi, che ormai si potevano perfino vantarsi di essere colti come lui.