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" Father, even if you were not my
father, even if you were a
stranger to me,
for yourself alone I would love you ".
This is how Camillo Sbarbaro writes in one of the best-known poems of "Pianissimo", his most famous poetic work among all the poetry and prose books he has written.
The father here has two poems, but it is to him that this book is dedicated.
When "Pianissimo" was published in 1914, Sbarbaro was 26 years old and his father had been dead for two. His mother passed away when he was five (from tuberculosis) and he was raised (along with his sister, whom he dearly loved) by her sister (whom the poet also dearly loved).
Born in Santa Margherita Ligure, near Genoa, and died in Savona in 1967, he is, in my opinion, the most straightforward Italian poet of the 20th century, who wrote under the direct dictation of the heart, without any ostentatious writing styles that would require more than just reasoning. Lacking philosophical knowledge, these poems already provide an idea of the life the poet lived in those moments, even if one hasn't yet had a chance to read some biographical notes.
"Pianissimo" was born precisely when one night, perhaps returning from a brothel (Sbarbaro often frequented them), he was lying in bed with "sated senses", where "amidst the emergence of disturbing instincts and sexual nausea" a realization came to him from the heart: "Quiet, weary soul of joy and suffering", which defined a condition dominated by the "prematurely endured" grief of the death he saw nearing for his father.
Another composition for his father on the sickbed (where the poet expressed admiration for the father who, despite the "fortress" with which he had raised him, loved his family, along with a very particular confession of forgiveness), "Pianissimo" took shape, even if to arrive at the title, Sbarbaro accepted the suggestion of a music enthusiast, against his own "Whispered".
But the fact is that both titles already give an idea of the work: Sbarbaro narrates precisely "pianissimo" and "sotto voce" (and objectively) his life made of an interior and total emptiness of every moral and spiritual value, with an arid existence, as an absent person among men, in a world that is equally arid and devoid of everything.
Here we are in the first section (of two) where Sbarbaro analyzes his condition and that of humanity around him. He is a "sleepwalker" who walks without noticing himself and life: but when he has moments of "awakening" in his mind, he realizes the uselessness of life itself, made of "hopes always disappointed", and of a death that does not give dignity to man because man himself is like a "lifeless puppet", a being without his own life who lives only out of necessity.
The city where he walks (most likely Genoa, where he lived at the time) is a cold and silent city, where he finds himself living like a stranger, to the point of comparing himself, "opaque" and "silent", to the houses he sees. The humanity he becomes fond of consists of prostitutes, drunkards, and other miserable people, where there is some sign of life. People who, however, represent a renunciation of life, already useless in itself.
His sleepwalking condition does not prevent him from wanting to feel alive with pain, to deeply love his father and sister. But pain, by its nature, sooner or later passes and leaves emptiness. This repeated process is the "habit" that he would rather not have.
The more I studied Sbarbaro, the more I understood his character. He desires, like a child ("boy"), to experience true feelings. That’s why somewhere you also read about tears, of "being able to cry them all alone" and (in one of the poems dedicated to the father) "loves" that don’t want to emerge from the eyes.
The historical moment when he writes is that of massive industrialization of cities, and life becomes less authentic. Among the well-off, there is a lot of pretense. When talking about "bourgeoisification", it also means the loss of any authentic relationship between people. In nature, however, there is a small reversal for the poet. A "calm almost smiling" (as Eugenio Montale wrote in a review dedicated to him), but in nature he does not feel an active presence but rather passive. He accepts everything from nature (even the "usual and vile" things) but feels that nature can do without man (see the second poem).
The second part consists of the poet’s journey and immersion in the infamous areas of the city, where he feels a sense of brotherhood, especially with drunkards (defined as "meteors of society"), one of the symbols of madness and perdition, to relieve himself of the "I" too heavy to bear (this may have perhaps determined his character of having only a few friends?).
For the prostitutes, a song of an "unconsumed love" and not even fully enjoyed (a story in "Trucioli" explains it even better). And in the realm of prostitutes, the figure of the woman-angel, salvific, in the penultimate poem.
The conclusion of "Pianissimo" features the poet surprised by a song of cicadas reminding him of nature. But the book born in the city concludes with the city: Sbarbaro writes about "feeling the soul clinging to every stone of the deaf city, like a tree that has put forth all its roots".
"Pianissimo" is the first work in Italy and perhaps in Europe that speaks of the solitude of modern man, and I believe it still has something relevant today. Even if society is better, there is always incommunicability (and the acceptance of all things: because nothing in life is "good" and nothing in life is "sad" - regarding the clairvoyance that the poet had in 1914 - and that one must resign. Certainly, one must not resign but fight, even by virtue of good things done in recent decades. But if there is a resignation, it is to admit that society will always go from bad to worse).
Returning to those years, solitude and even the loss of identity are themes already addressed by Pirandello and Svevo. But after "Pianissimo", there will be a flourishing of novels addressing these themes. Also due to Freud's psychoanalysis theory.
In 1920, his first prose book, "Trucioli", was released, enthusiastically reviewed by Eugenio Montale (influenced in his own first work by Sbarbaro himself, also writing him two poems). The title, like subsequent ones, explains the author's (now writer's) renunciation of literature.
Here he writes about sensations and adventures in taverns and the city, childhood memories and the past, and strong-colored descriptions of some streets of Genoa and some localities of Liguria.
The stories of characters seen in taverns or city streets, often humble and/or miserable. In a diary form, which he maintains in a good part of his production.
"Trucioli" expands to texts written during enlistment and participation in the Great War and in the two subsequent decades. The pages printed in italics have particular value, vividly describing the writer's character, life sensations, and adventures.
"Scampoli", which comes after, maintains the "Trucioli" framework and in some parts recalls the atmospheres of "Pianissimo" (but "Trucioli" also reflects the same poetic work).
If you are amazed by Sbarbaro, I think you'll be for the stories of strange situations, not normally present in Italian literature, as well as for his "peculiar" characteristics. His love for the "last" - someone wrote "for the scrap" - dear years later to De André, but for different reasons. And his love for children, the most innocent and authentic expression of a void, desperate humanity.
Sbarbaro in Spotorno, after Savona, from the early '50s to end life in a house in the mountains (not quite, but almost) with the desire to die in peace in nature (see "Pianissimo").
In the meantime, he collected some poems set aside under the title "Rimanenze" (1955) (very beautiful, but even more so the "Versi a Dina", from twenty years earlier) and his world-famous lichen collections.
I have written so much, but I wanted to make you fall in love with him. His simplicity struck me, and today I enjoy every single moment of my life (a song, a hug and a kiss - on the cheek - with a girl and a well-cooked dish) thanks to him,
CAMILLO SBARBARO.
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