I read, not without curiosity, the book by Sandor Marai, author rediscovered in recent years and having to call them home for a period more or less similar to that in which the protagonist of the 'coals' hatching his desire for revenge. The story of a love divided between two friendly fire. We will try to resolve it in one night left in a castle at the foot of the Carpathians, in an 'atmosphere che risente di una certa influenza gotica, cara ai romantici.
Io ne avrei fatto un racconto e non un romanzo; questo perché avrebbe potuto evitare alcune inutili lungaggini. E anche perché Marai si dimostra padrone dell'argomento, e la formula del racconto forse gli sarebbe stata più congeniale; ma Marai è morto e le braci non si possono più riscrivere o riaccendere.
Resta il fatto che lo stile di quest'autore procede con eleganza e con geometria, mantenendo la giusta dose di tensione. Vi dirò però che l'argomento non è tra i miei preferiti, anche se le possibilità offerte da questo tema sono numerose, tanto più se i protagonisti si dimostrano portatori di una 'tabe ereditaria'; la miglior cosa che see how one can do is avoid them. He also realized Marai, who loved the romance in old age, feeling 'too romantic'.
But I is not sorry.
There is a very beautiful poem by Robert Browning. I do not remember the title.
In this poem there is an old man, dying.
In the last moments of his life turns to a Protestant pastor who came likely to elicit a confession and redeem souls. It 's a very similar situation to that of the' coals', is not it? The pastor is approached and whispered in his ear if he is dying now sees " world as a vale of tears. " The man replied: "If I see the world as a vale of tears? / No, Reverend Mr., not me. "
She tells him that what he sees now is not at all comparable to a vale of tears she sees is a dead (the description which is very nice as the old one helps with the bottles of medicines that has on the table next, to make more visual impact and reconstruct the scene, not without a symbolic key), then see a dead and in the back alley of a terrace house where a girl watching him. The poem does not tell us but we imagine to be a married woman. The two have more frequent meetings, he comes at that gate and you are there waiting. "I know, sir, it'improper" he says. He knows that is something unseemly, who is ill, but dying. The life has left that image, that moment very dense, and he can not remember with regret. He has no regrets. This is a very common theme in the poetry of Browning. I would point out also a poem, which begins with a tribute to Shelley - poet asks another if he has actually seen face to face Shelley and stopped to chat with him (for us this emotion might be strange, but for us a idea that we should think for a meet-the-century poet Shelley and see him face to face and even stop and talk with him, was a bit 'as a Neapolitan in the nineties to meet Maradona in the streets of Naples and take two dribbles together) - in this poem, Browning said he had crossed a moor for days, and I remember nothing else, despite roads, the trees, the atmosphere, which an eagle feather that rested on his chest.
Marai beginning with the same assumption. Never mind that there are answers, if life were to feed the questions, just enough to die remembering everything that was important, even though it was inconvenient, even if it was not moral.
Give Peace a Chance 
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