Giovedì, Febbraio 14, 2013

Valentine’s Day

Un omaggio a questo giorno dedicato all’amore, a voi lettori e alla mia scrittrice giapponese del cuore.

Mi riferisco a Sei Shonagon grande donna e scrittrice che nonostante abbia annotato queste parole nel suo Makura no soshi -conosciuto in italiano con il titolo di Note del Guanciale alla fine del X secolo- è assolutamente attuale e capace di comunicare in maniera impeccabile.

Le riporto in inglese per accontentare tutti ^__^ Auguri

Hateful things

A lover who is leaving at dawn announces that he has to find his fan and his paper.
-I know I put them somewhere last night- he says.
Since it is pitch dark, he gropes about the room, bumping into the furniture and muttering.
-Strange! Where on earth can they be-.
Finally he discovers the objects.
He thrusts the paper into the breast of his robe with a great rustling sound; then he snaps open his fan and busily fans away with it.
Only now is he ready to take his leave.
What charmless behaviour! Hateful is an understatement.

Equally disagreeable is the man who, when leaving in the middle of the night, takes care to fasten the cord of his headdress.
This is quite unnecessary; he could perfectly well put it gently on his head without tying the cord.
And why must he spend time adjusting his cloak or hunting costume?
Does he really think someone may see him at this time of night and criticize him for not being impeccably dressed?

A good lover will behave as elegantly at dawn as at any other time.
He drags himself out of bed with a look of dismay on his face.
The lady urges him on: -Come, my friend, it’s getting light. You don’t want anyone to find you here-.
He gives a deep sigh, as if to say that the night has not been nearly long enough and that it is agony to leave.
Once up, he does not instantly pull on his trousers.
Instead he comes close to the lady and whispers whatever was left unsaid during the night.
Even when he is dressed, he still lingers, vaguely pretending to be fastening his sash.

Indeed, one’s attachment to a man depends largely on the elegance of his leave-taking.
When he jumps out of bed, scurries about the room, tightly fastens his trouser-sash, rolls up the sleeves of his Court cloak, over-robe, or hunting costume, stuffs his belongings into the breast of his robe and then briskly secures the outer sash—one really begins to hate him.