FAMOUS GUESTS FIRST SPRING Hitler For me, this poem has a special memory: examining the discussion of maturity. It is part of the collection "The Storm and the other", released in 1956. Collects the poems from 1940 to 1952. They were special years. There was the Second World War, the rise of mass society, the rule of the DC and PCI did not lead to anything. All signals that, according to Montale, announce the decline not only of authentic values, but the entire Western civilization. The "storm" refers to the Second World War but also to such a catastrophe, "the other" to foreign events and following it.
This poem is part of the fifth section dela collection. A section in which the poet becomes aware of the crisis of values \u200b\u200band attempts to find new ones. The poetry can asolvere this task. It must escape from the "storm" is no longer on high, in the abstract but in concrete, in the "mud" of daily life. In the poem posted
alluded to a visit by Hitler in Florence. It 'was written in two stages: in 1939 and 1946. The head of Nazism is the "put hell "and his arrival in Florence is a desecration of the values \u200b\u200bof Western civilization. He is opposed Clizia (while the German is Hell, Clizia is Paradise), the bearer of true values. Montale asks if there is Hitler and the war, then what sense are the moments we spent with her ("All for nothing then?")? But at the end of the poem suggests a possible purchase and moths of snow, sad omen original, it becomes possible death "monsters": the death of Hitler and Mussolini.
Folta the white cloud of moths
crazy swirls around the shoulders and pale lights,
Lay a blanket on which Scricco
as the sugar foot; upcoming summer releases
now understand that freezing night in secret caves
the season, the orchards that
Maiano override these Renai.
recently on the course is passed to a flight made from a hellish
alal of brigands, a pit on
decked with crosses and took the hook and swallowed,
have closed the windows, poor and inoffensive though armed
also
guns and war toys,
has barred the butcher that
berry floral nose of kids killed, the feast of the myths
executioners still do not know the blood hath been turned into a foul
Trescone wings crashed,
larvae on floodplains, and water continues to gnaw
sides and no one is innocent.
All for nothing, then?-
Roman candles and St. John, who bleached lens
the horizon, and the pawns and the long goodbyes
strong as a baptism in the dismal waiting
Horde (a gem, but the staff 'air
dripping on the ice and the shores of your shores
angels of Tobit, the seven, seeding the future
) and heliotrope-born
from your hands all burned and sucked by a pollen
stride like a fire
and tips snibibbio
Oh ... the party is still plagued
spring freezes if
death in this life! See more
Above Clizia, it's your fate, you
that the non-mutated love changed Serbs
until the sun blind you in the Other ports
it dazzles and destroys
Him for tutti.Forse sirens , the chimes that greet
monsters in the evening
their horde, mingles with the sound
that detached from the sky, descends, won-
with the breath of dawn that tomorrow everyone will white reappeared but without wings of horror, the burning shores of the south. Eugenio Montale (The Storm and the other, Silvae, V sec.)
