My father and mother were great players.
At home there were lots of books, many of their youth, even though their families in the years preceding the war there were a lot of money and buy a few books that circulated in the home were almost never owned exclusive of anyone. Like clothes, passed from hand to hand, from the brother or sister "big" and smaller as time passed.
Then, from the beginning of their married life mother and father began to buy books and, of course, came at home - more - ii all school books that my mother received a vision and those of 'work' Dad: Essays historical, political, biographies, philosophical texts, texts of political economy.
When I was older - already at the high school - always wait for dad to return home, often because he was carrying a package containing at least one volume that I immediately examined with curiosity, imagining that there might be also something for me, but most of the time were things that were part of his INTERESTS work and that, nevertheless, sometimes I also read - if only in part.
Instead, when I was younger my father often took me with him to the Library Flaccovio that, in the postwar years in Palermo was truly a remarkable landmark in the cultural life not only in Palermo, Sicily, but globally.
It was not uncommon there to meet the poet Ignazio Buttitta or important painters, given that - frequently - in the spaces of the Library were set up exhibitions.
While chatting with my father Fausto Flaccovio, I poked around freely among the shelves of the department of books for children: I was delighted to this freedom that I was not allowed under the attentive eye of Ms. Iole (an institution of the library Flaccovio), also because sometimes Fausto Flaccovio invited me to choose a book to take away and, invariably, my choice is precisely on one of the most expensive. A worth nothing to deter attempts to Dad and his tireless alternative proposals. Fausto Flaccovio did a turn and at the end I am proud, I wore that book well away wrapped in a foretaste of reading soon. A distance of time, I had asked my father several times if he did not pay under the table ( Room Caritatis ) those volumes, embarrassed intrusiveness and lack of discretion of my choices.
home dad read especially at night: once, when I was about to go to bed, I went to greet him. He was sitting in the living room, as he used to do frequently. He had beside him the tubler with two fingers of bourbon and a large book on his lap. "What are you doing? Do not go to bed? - I asked. No! - he said - remain yet to read a little '. In the morning when I got up, still sleepy, I saw the light still burning salottto: I entered the room and he sat still where I had left, with the book this time on his knees, but closed now. "What are you doing? You did not go to sleep? - I asked. "No. I've read all night. I just finished " - replied by indicating the volume placed in the womb. The bulk of Volume was a biography of Bismarck.
But as he read books of this kind, just as voraciously read detective novels and" serious "(well acquainted with many literary classics and , just released, read in full "The Man Without Qualities" by Musil.
Mom in his reading was more discrete (but read a lot of tasks consistent with its educational and family) and she hung out with the filing of the publisher Blacksmith, in addition to print many textbooks, published a wide variety of hybrid children: some I bought them at the discounted price that was the owner of the store, while others became Christmas or the Epiphany. Mom was very stimulating to read, but I almost never read things that I can remember.
Dad, however, when I was little he used to do readings at my brother and me when we were in bed before the light went out. And those moments were always highly anticipated. There
ably entertained: some reading, reciting, partly told to ease up those steps that we, still small, would have been boring.
readings that I remember were, among others: the story of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, Aladdin and the magic lamp, but also surprised us with the travel adventures of Sinbad the Sailor, of which struck me most the encounter with the mythical bird Rok or that of Sinbad landed on an island (which was not nothing but a giant fish with the back part shown).
At the same time, growing up, both me and my brother, together with mom and dad were reading through the proposals made gifts for special occasions: thus it was that came the novels of Jules Verne and Salgari.
Dad was tireless in its proposals, and as I grew older, he came out with new openings and new: it was that because I was passionate for adventure novels salgariane, introduced me to a large book containing short stories and novels Conrad (which represents the evolution of psychological seamanship and adventure of the novel) or even some works of Melville, with the branches to the detective (Conan Doyle and Sherlock Holmes), horror (Poe, Lovecraft) and also of course the literature of travel diary, of which he was a tireless devotee. It was always him to take the first volumes of uranium, the legendary science fiction series of Mondadori, or even the more serious science-fiction propooste "cultured" contained in the equally mythical anthologies edited by Fruttero and Lucentini (before The wonders of ' impossible and then "The wonders of the possible" that represented udfficiale clearance of science fiction publishing "cultured")
Once - for example - we went to the cinema to see movies in the transposition of the story of Billy Budd sailor : a beautiful black and white film in the early '60s, moving and sad. Returning home he took out the short novel by Melville (hence the film was cast) and began to read some passages that were carved with me the noble final sentence of the innocent Billy Budd which, although sentenced to be hanged under strict rules of the Royal Navy in time of war, cries out in front before the end of the crew gathered to watch the death penalty: "God bless the master De Vere!"
I always think back with nostalgia to the readings that I did my father, I believe that many ways is to convey the passion for reading and books (a passion that at times borders on bibliophily)
Perhaps because animated by the nostalgic reference to the past, the same things I tried to do myself with my son : Even my son with me, grew up surrounded by books, but I do not know if somehow I managed to convey something of the wonderful worlds that books can open up before and the almost sacred value they may have as witnesses that are passed from one generation to another (and, indeed, even in a past not far away - so I'm used to feel it myself - the books were a real family assets, with no real monetary value, but of inestimable price from the point view of values).
is certain is that today many things have changed and that among boys the same age as my son dominates much more than a visual culture that clearly by-passing the written word, and then - perhaps for this reason - the passion for the book and Reading are a bit 'in decline.
At home there were lots of books, many of their youth, even though their families in the years preceding the war there were a lot of money and buy a few books that circulated in the home were almost never owned exclusive of anyone. Like clothes, passed from hand to hand, from the brother or sister "big" and smaller as time passed.
Then, from the beginning of their married life mother and father began to buy books and, of course, came at home - more - ii all school books that my mother received a vision and those of 'work' Dad: Essays historical, political, biographies, philosophical texts, texts of political economy.
When I was older - already at the high school - always wait for dad to return home, often because he was carrying a package containing at least one volume that I immediately examined with curiosity, imagining that there might be also something for me, but most of the time were things that were part of his INTERESTS work and that, nevertheless, sometimes I also read - if only in part.
Instead, when I was younger my father often took me with him to the Library Flaccovio that, in the postwar years in Palermo was truly a remarkable landmark in the cultural life not only in Palermo, Sicily, but globally.
It was not uncommon there to meet the poet Ignazio Buttitta or important painters, given that - frequently - in the spaces of the Library were set up exhibitions.
While chatting with my father Fausto Flaccovio, I poked around freely among the shelves of the department of books for children: I was delighted to this freedom that I was not allowed under the attentive eye of Ms. Iole (an institution of the library Flaccovio), also because sometimes Fausto Flaccovio invited me to choose a book to take away and, invariably, my choice is precisely on one of the most expensive. A worth nothing to deter attempts to Dad and his tireless alternative proposals. Fausto Flaccovio did a turn and at the end I am proud, I wore that book well away wrapped in a foretaste of reading soon. A distance of time, I had asked my father several times if he did not pay under the table ( Room Caritatis ) those volumes, embarrassed intrusiveness and lack of discretion of my choices.
home dad read especially at night: once, when I was about to go to bed, I went to greet him. He was sitting in the living room, as he used to do frequently. He had beside him the tubler with two fingers of bourbon and a large book on his lap. "What are you doing? Do not go to bed? - I asked. No! - he said - remain yet to read a little '. In the morning when I got up, still sleepy, I saw the light still burning salottto: I entered the room and he sat still where I had left, with the book this time on his knees, but closed now. "What are you doing? You did not go to sleep? - I asked. "No. I've read all night. I just finished " - replied by indicating the volume placed in the womb. The bulk of Volume was a biography of Bismarck.
But as he read books of this kind, just as voraciously read detective novels and" serious "(well acquainted with many literary classics and , just released, read in full "The Man Without Qualities" by Musil.
Mom in his reading was more discrete (but read a lot of tasks consistent with its educational and family) and she hung out with the filing of the publisher Blacksmith, in addition to print many textbooks, published a wide variety of hybrid children: some I bought them at the discounted price that was the owner of the store, while others became Christmas or the Epiphany. Mom was very stimulating to read, but I almost never read things that I can remember.
Dad, however, when I was little he used to do readings at my brother and me when we were in bed before the light went out. And those moments were always highly anticipated. There
ably entertained: some reading, reciting, partly told to ease up those steps that we, still small, would have been boring.
readings that I remember were, among others: the story of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, Aladdin and the magic lamp, but also surprised us with the travel adventures of Sinbad the Sailor, of which struck me most the encounter with the mythical bird Rok or that of Sinbad landed on an island (which was not nothing but a giant fish with the back part shown).
At the same time, growing up, both me and my brother, together with mom and dad were reading through the proposals made gifts for special occasions: thus it was that came the novels of Jules Verne and Salgari.
Dad was tireless in its proposals, and as I grew older, he came out with new openings and new: it was that because I was passionate for adventure novels salgariane, introduced me to a large book containing short stories and novels Conrad (which represents the evolution of psychological seamanship and adventure of the novel) or even some works of Melville, with the branches to the detective (Conan Doyle and Sherlock Holmes), horror (Poe, Lovecraft) and also of course the literature of travel diary, of which he was a tireless devotee. It was always him to take the first volumes of uranium, the legendary science fiction series of Mondadori, or even the more serious science-fiction propooste "cultured" contained in the equally mythical anthologies edited by Fruttero and Lucentini (before The wonders of ' impossible and then "The wonders of the possible" that represented udfficiale clearance of science fiction publishing "cultured")
Once - for example - we went to the cinema to see movies in the transposition of the story of Billy Budd sailor : a beautiful black and white film in the early '60s, moving and sad. Returning home he took out the short novel by Melville (hence the film was cast) and began to read some passages that were carved with me the noble final sentence of the innocent Billy Budd which, although sentenced to be hanged under strict rules of the Royal Navy in time of war, cries out in front before the end of the crew gathered to watch the death penalty: "God bless the master De Vere!"
I always think back with nostalgia to the readings that I did my father, I believe that many ways is to convey the passion for reading and books (a passion that at times borders on bibliophily)
Perhaps because animated by the nostalgic reference to the past, the same things I tried to do myself with my son : Even my son with me, grew up surrounded by books, but I do not know if somehow I managed to convey something of the wonderful worlds that books can open up before and the almost sacred value they may have as witnesses that are passed from one generation to another (and, indeed, even in a past not far away - so I'm used to feel it myself - the books were a real family assets, with no real monetary value, but of inestimable price from the point view of values).
is certain is that today many things have changed and that among boys the same age as my son dominates much more than a visual culture that clearly by-passing the written word, and then - perhaps for this reason - the passion for the book and Reading are a bit 'in decline.
