D. (dalaruan) wrote,

e come spesso indarno si sospira

"A slow sadness took hold of us. Our lot was exile. Our city was far away, our books, our friends, the shifting ups and downs of a real existence, all far away. [...]

I told the children about our city. They were very small when we left, and had no memories of it. I told them how the houses had many floors and there were lots of streets and buildings and beautiful stores. “But here we have Girò’s,” the children said. [...]

The end of winter awakens a vague restlessness in us. Maybe someone would come to visit, maybe something would finally happen. Surely our exile, too, must have an end. [...]

There is a certain dull uniformity in human destiny. The course of our lives follows ancient and immutable laws, with an ancient, changeless rhythm. Dreams never come true, and the instant they are shattered, we realize how the greatest joys of our life lie beyond the realm of reality. When dreams are shattered we are longing for the days when they flamed within us. Our fate spends itself in this succession of hope and nostaliga.

A few months after we left the village my husband died in the prison Regina Coeli in Rome. When I think of the horror of his agonizing and solitary death, and the fears that preceded it, I wonder if this really happened to us, we who bought oranges at Girò's and went walking through the snow. I believed in a happy future then, rich with fulfilled desires, with shared experiences and ventures. And yet this time was the best time of my life, but only now, now that it's gone forever, do I know it."

Natalia Ginzburg, Winter in the Abruzzi

Her husband, author and editor Leone Ginzburg, fought against the fascists.
He was tortured to death by the Gestapo, 5th February 1944, age 35

Tags: death, literature, loss

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