was in the beginning, right in the beginning, when no 'was no sea, only the birds and the sunshine, the' endless horizon. Since childhood, I dreamed of going there, in that place where it all began, where it all ended. They hear about it as a hiding place as a treasure. In Nantucket they all spoke in that way it comes from drunk. Over there, they said, in California, in 'ocean, c' is that secret place whales go to give birth to their young, where the old females return to die. C 'is the space, the huge hole in the sea, where they gather by the thousands, all together, young girls with older, and males form all' round a line of defense to prevent orcas and sharks from approaching, and the water boils under the blows of fin, the sky darkens in the steam vents, the cries of birds make a noise to forge. So people said, and all told of the place as if 'they had seen. And I, on the pier in Nantucket, I listened to these things and I remembered too 'me, as if I had been there. And now, everything is gone. But I remember it, and it is as if my life was not more than that dream, which was destroyed everything in the world was new and nice. A Nantucket are never returned. I wonder if the sound of that dream still exists. The big ships tapered, tall trees from which the 'look-out man scanned the sea, the boats hanging from the sides, ready to sail the sea, the props, the harpoons, hooks, ready to do their job. And the sea blood red, black beneath the sky full of birds. My memory further, in Nantucket, was the 'smell of blood in the sea, the port still gray of late winter, when the whalers came back from' the other side of the world towing giant dead. Then, on the docks, their bodies torn to pieces by blows huge d 'ax and saw, i fiumi di sangue nero che colava nei bacini della darsena, l' odore acre e intenso, l' odore delle profondità marine. Ho camminato lì, quando avevo otto anni, fra le carcasse che marcivano. I gabbiani abitavano il corpo dei giganti, ne schizzavano fuori strappando via pezzi di pelle o di grasso. Di notte, c' era l' esercito dei ratti, entravano nelle carcasse come dentro a una montagna scavata da gallerie. Mio zio Samuel lavorava al sezionamento. Fu lui a mostrarmi per la prima volta la testa dei giganti, la mandibola immensa, l' occhio così piccolo, sepolto sotto strati di pelle, l' occhio privo di sguardo, coperto da un velo azzurrognolo. Respiravo l' odore orrendo del sangue e delle viscere, e mi immaginavo quei corpi vivi, che balzavano the waves, the roar of 'water against their skulls, prodigious shots of the fins and tails. Samuel My uncle taught me to distinguish between right whales from the whale, the sperm whale, the humpback whale. He told me as he did the 'man on the lookout to recognize from afar, from the spray, the whale with its double jet, the blue whale with its single jet that shoots up like a tree of steam. All of this, the 'I learned on the dock of Nantucket, with the cries of birds rippers, the thud of axes struck the carcasses, the' smell of boiled fat in basins. I was on that pier when I saw for the first time a 'killer whale, huge and black, and a shark that had opened the belly.
Authors
Jean-Marie Gustave Le Clézio was born in Nice in 1940, the original family of Mauritius, is the author of over 40 titles including novels, short stories, essays and stories for children. Great traveler, he spent several years in Panama living with an indigenous tribe, and from time lies between Nice, Mauritius and Albuquerque. In 2008 he was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature.
Eloar Guazzelli, Brazilian, is an illustrator and visual artist, winner of numerous international awards for some of its comics page. For 26 years he worked as a director of animated films and teaches illustration at the European Institute of Design in St. Paul.
Saverio Simonelli
If a book contains the voice of the sea
The sea has that kind of voice and rhythm, like a giant diaphragm moves up and down and so it seems to support and cradle the mainland. It enriches the form, then gives the equilibrium composition, suggests the desolation of life in the sand. The writer of sea somehow knows that his rhythm will have to deal with that, that those who read a story set on the water's got in his ears along with the memory of other voices, the faces di personaggi, intrecci ed eventi che hanno fatto la storia della letteratura: le navi di Virgilio e Long John Silver, il vecchio di Hemingway, Achab e Moby Dick, Giasone e gli Argonauti, Robinson Crusoe.
Jean Marie Le Clezio, Nobel nel 2008, ha unito la sua voce a quelle voci e a quel ritmo, con un racconto conciso ma fitto, psicologicamente ampio quanto un sogno che accompagna le età della vita con questo“Il posto delle balene” pubblicato ora da Donzelli con l’aiuto dei disegni crudi, quasi fossero tratti elementari di matita di Eloar Guazzelli.
Diciamo subito che Le Clezio è all’altezza di sfidare il mare e chi l’ha raccontato, la scialuppa della sua scrittura viaggia spedita e tranquilla on water because it follows the rhythm, and welcomes all the seductions: a syntax and then pressing for an early period, however, that the phrases before you get the eye seem to rest a moment on paper like an undertow, as if they wanted to go back In the unfolding of history waiting for the thrust of the text in one piece, something that takes compact and moves like the sea.
The story is ancient, partially recounted, but here plotted with a naturalness and modesty ammanierato: the story of two men and a ship who finds a marine sanctuary in an inlet of the California coast, where whales go to give birth and in old age to die. In this paradise ancient, serene and silent as the day of the creation of the world he instills the germ of the conquest, enrichment, the intensive exploitation of the race and fierce. The boiling of the blood takes over as the lapping of the surf. Ships from all over the world converge in the lagoon and the killing of cetaceans knows no end.
The facts are narrated retrospectively by two voices, that of John the hub of Nantucket, and very young at the time of the story of Charles Melville Scannone, commander of the ship, which despite the name has nothing epic Ahab's obsession. Yeah, because the substance of the book is poetic, as well as in the rhythm of the narrative, the unbridgeable distance that the author relentlessly stands between the attractiveness of the purity and ardor of conquest and challenge Ahab and the whale all the monsters of his ego, his overwhelming charm and left the whales of the text of Le Clezio is a symbol of something that is opposed to ' homo faber, man seduces her age and I child, primitive, stokes the greed domain but remember the promise of Eden. However, the choice is once again inevitable. The boost to consumption of reality is still strong, relentless, congenital heaven, even the land is again lost and it is only a reminder nostalgic memories of a life as possible and full but inevitably broken: the longing remains, tears of the hub that the senior commander recalls and near death as a sign of a secret from him insight: awareness lucid and heartbreaking to have lost something irretrievable that you can only dream of returning to touch: why you should breathe again like the sea, to go along with the rhythm of that diaphragm moves up and down, to obey the life that comes before any desire, but perhaps we do not belong here nor now.
http://www.lacompagniadellibro.tv2000.it/
JMG Le Clézio
The place of the whales
Illustrations Eloar Guazzelli
Donzelli Editore, 2011
€ 13.50
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