Dino Buzzati

Dino Buzzati is one of the most fascinating Italian writers of the second half of the twentieth century: suspended between the fantastical and realism, he captured the existential anguish of contemporary man, the absence of hope alongside the intense desire to escape into a better world, beyond reality; he is the Kafka and the Philip Dick of our literature, so often prosaic and lyrical. A great writer to be read in small doses, it is a pity that this vast 1958 collection of short stories was republished, for it also reveals the limits of Buzzati's poetic and spiritual world. Let us start with a short story, *A Drop*. In an apartment building, a strange event occurs: > a drop of water is climbing the steps of the stairs. Can you hear it? Lying in bed in the dark, I listen to its arcane journey. How does it do it? Does it hop? Tick, tick, tick, it is heard intermittently. (...) But what is this drop, after all, (...) could it perchance be an allegory? (...) Or is it more subtly intended to depict dreams and chimeras? Or places further away still, at the edge of the world, which we will never reach. No, it is merely a drop. In its banality and strangeness, a hopping drop of water encapsulates the narrative vein of Buzzati's entire work: the bizarre nature of reality, which is not what it should be; the spasmodic need of the human being to take root in something concrete, alongside the anticipation of something else—the whole, however, enclosed in a claustrophobic world from which one cannot escape. Consider another story, an ironic and gentle sketch of the Milanese upper bourgeoisie. In *Fear at La Scala*, we are at an opera premiere; Milan's most elegant and affluent society has gathered in the great theater. A rumor spreads that revolution is about to break out; and so the spectators remain inside La Scala as though it were a diplomatic mission. > Among so many familiar faces, in an environment alien to politics, (...) they felt protected . With keen psychology, Buzzati describes the dynamics of this "joyful, noble, and civilized" world, yet frightened and incapable of reacting. > In the square, a stooped little man appeared, pushing a handcart. With extreme calm (...) the little man began to sweep. Bravo! A few strokes of the broom were enough. (...) Nothing had happened . And what should happen? Recalling a beautiful poem by Caproni (*Farewell of the Ceremonious Traveler*), in *Something Had Happened* the travelers, arriving at the station, found it empty, > until the voice of a woman, piercing and violent as a gunshot, gave us a shudder. Help! Help! she screamed, and the cry reverberated beneath the glassy vaults with the hollow sonority of places forever abandoned . There is nothing waiting for us beyond our dreary existence. The theme of a claustrophobic world from which one escapes, even by resorting to fantasy, runs through the entire collection of short stories. Each of them captivates the reader, despite variations in stylistic and narrative quality; yet the whole becomes monotonous and looming in its existential pessimism. The book should be taken as a breviary, to be read once in a while, a short story here and there, whenever one feels the need to turn to fantasy and the paradoxical, but without any pretense of uplifting the spirit in the face of the world's ugliness. Or perhaps, as in *Seven Floors*, a splendid narration of a hospital stay (who among us has not lived through the fears and loneliness of the sick person at the mercy of doctors?), nothing remains but the mysterious fascination of the landscape. > He looked at the green of the trees through the window, with the impression of having entered an unreal world, made of absurd walls and sterilized tiles, of icy, mortuary entrance halls, of white human figures void of soul. It even occurred to him that the trees he seemed to glimpse through the window were not real either; in fact, he ended up convinced of it, noticing that the leaves did not move at all. To appreciate the stories, one must make generous use of quotations. Indeed, it is not the narrative structure that grips—it is, in fact, repetitive; Buzzati's strength lies in his writing. One is left to wonder how this author manages to blend the fantastical and surreal, even science-fictional style, with a descriptive prose attentive to detail, psychological insight, and context, just as a fine nineteenth-century novel would demand; a narrative that is invariably elegant, fluid, and lexically rich. Why read it? Keep it on the nightstand like a breviary, of fantasy and elegance.

At the beginning of the story, Dino Buzzati imagines that a nineteenth-century abbot, «with concise and very clear accounts», speaks of «a wondrous vision» upon beholding the old wood; in a footnote, the author observes how some men grasp the secrets of the woods, perceiving them by «nature», while others will never possess this sensitivity, > and will pass impassive (...) alongside the tenebrous forests, without even suspecting what goes on inside . Communion with the trees, the capacity to grasp their magic, belongs to children; as Bernardo explains—the tree-genie who took upon himself the burdensome task of conversing with adults— > at a certain age all of you, men, change. Nothing remains of what you were as children. You become unrecognizable . Adulthood causes one to lose the quality of feeling part of the whole, of playing in the woods alongside the animals, of understanding the birdsong, of perceiving and distinguishing the grand, multicolored orchestra of the forest’s sounds. Since adults will never love nature, the genie Bernardo became friends with the old owner, persuading him to leave the old wood untouched. What an ordeal to spend evenings in long games of cards, in tedious conversations, while > through the window, along with the scent of most precious resins, drifted the deep voice of his brothers, singing carefree ! The situation changes when the old owner dies and the new master arrives. Procolo, a retired colonel, is a rigid, somber, solitary man, impervious to any communion with the woods, which he views merely as an opportunity for exploitation. It is not that he is greedy; he is simply a petty soul, and how can one who lacks generosity ever find pleasure in the rustlings and scents of the woods? He allies himself with the wind Matteo to bend the tree-genies and force them to work for him in exploiting the forest; he kills the magpie that stands sentinel over the house, only to plunge into the silence of the night, locked within his nightmares. Wretched and wicked, he seeks to rid himself of young Benvenuto, the heir to the wood and his ward; with the aid of the wind Matteo, he does not hesitate to abandon the boy in wild tracts of the forest, where Benvenuto surely would have died. He fails, believing that no one knows of his murderous intent. But when he ventures into the depths of the forest, > the birdsong fades, the squirrels and dormice flee, silence settles upon the boughs, and at times ominous storm clouds even appear in the sky. (...) Evidently he struck a discordant note in that joyful corner of the woods; evidently trees and birds could not endure him . Even his shadow abandons him, so disgusted is it by the barrenness of its lifelong companion. Procolo is alone. And yet, little by little, reluctant and surprised, during a sleepless night Procolo recognized the sounds of the forest. He counted fifteen of them, meticulously noting down each one. > But two or three times, that night, there was also true silence, the solemn silence of ancient woods, incomparable to any other in the world, which very few men have ever heard . And the goodness that dwells in all human beings is finally liberated from the performance of self, from that «false self» that had accompanied him throughout his life. Procolo dies, yet he is saved. Buzzati’s tale can be interpreted as a fascinating metaphor for the human soul, where the woods are not Dante’s «dark wood» but a kind of Shinto paradise in which trees are benevolent genies and the winds are hostile, dark forces: a depiction, in short, of the intricate tangle of consciousness. I prefer to interpret *The Secret of the Old Woods* literally, as a great fable of the forest, devoid of ulterior meanings. Raised by parents who loved the mountains and made me spend long summers amidst the greenery of the Alps, walking among the trees was always part of my life, without my understanding why. Reading Buzzati’s tale made me understand my passion. And it is precisely for this reason that I juxtapose it with Petrarch, fully aware of how daring such a connection is. When Francesco Petrarch recounts his walks in Provence and Tuscany, I recognize the feeling that stirs within me as I, too, make my way through the forest: the longing for detachment from the frenzy of the world, finding oneself again, solitary, silent, immersed in physical activity, permeated by the vitality of the trees, conscious of the bond connecting all living beings. Often, wandering freely and aimlessly amidst the lights and sounds of the forest, the lines of Canto XXXV of the *Canzoniere* come to mind: > alone and pensively the most deserted fields/I pace and measure out with slow and tardy steps,/and keep my watchful eyes alert to flee/wherever human imprint marks the sand .

At the beginning of the tale, Dino Buzzati imagines a nineteenth-century abbot who, "with succinct and very clear accounts," speaks of "a wondrous vision" upon beholding the old forest; in a footnote, the author observes how some men grasp the secrets of the woods, perceiving them by "nature," while others will never possess this sensitivity, > and will pass impassively (...) along the shadowy forests, without even suspecting what goes on in there . Communion with the trees, the capacity to perceive their magic, belongs to children; as Bernardo explains—the tree-genie who has taken upon himself the burdensome task of conversing with adults— > at a certain age all of you, men, change. Nothing remains of what you were as children. You become unrecognizable . Adulthood causes one to lose the quality of feeling part of the whole, of playing in the woods alongside the animals, of understanding the birdsong, of perceiving and distinguishing the vibrant and grandiose orchestra of forest sounds. Because adults will never love nature, the genie Bernardo befriended the old owner, persuading him to leave the old forest untouched. What an ordeal it was to spend evenings in long games of cards, in tedious conversations while > through the window, with the fragrance of precious resins, entered the deep voice of his brothers, singing carefree ! The situation changes when the old owner dies and the new master arrives. Procolo, a retired colonel, is a rigid, somber man, solitary and impervious to any communion with the woods, which he sees merely as an opportunity for exploitation. It is not that he is greedy; he is simply a petty soul, and how can one who lacks generosity find pleasure in the rustlings and scents of the woods? He allies himself with the wind Matteo to bend the tree-genies and force them to work for him in exploiting the forest; he kills the magpie that stands sentinel over the house, only to plummet into the silence of the night, trapped inside his nightmares. Wretched and wicked, he seeks to rid himself of young Benvenuto, heir to the forest, of whom he is the guardian; with the aid of the wind Matteo, he does not hesitate to abandon the child in wild reaches of the woods, where Benvenuto would surely have perished. He fails, yet believes no one knows of his murderous intent. But when he ventures into the thick of the forest, > behold, the birdsong wanes, squirrels and dormice flee, silence settles upon the boughs, and at times ominous clouds even appear in the sky. (...) Clearly he struck a false note in that blissful corner of the woods; clearly the trees and birds could not bear him . Even his shadow abandons him, so disgusted is it by the barrenness of its lifelong companion. Procolo is alone. And yet, little by little, reluctant and astonished, on a sleepless night Procolo recognized the sounds of the forest. He counted fifteen of them, meticulously noted one by one. > But two or three times, that night, there was also true silence, the solemn silence of ancient woods, comparable to none other in the world, which very few men have ever heard . And the goodness that resides in all human beings is finally liberated from the representation of self, from that "false self" that had accompanied him throughout his life. Procolo dies, but is saved. Buzzati’s tale can be interpreted as a fascinating metaphor for the human soul, where the woods are not Dante’s *selva oscura*, but rather a kind of Shinto paradise in which trees are benevolent genies and winds are hostile, dark forces: a depiction, in short, of the intricate tangle of consciousness. I prefer to interpret *The Secret of the Old Forest* literally, as a great woodland fairy tale, devoid of ulterior meanings. Raised by parents who loved the mountains and made me spend long summers amidst the greenery of the Alps, walking among the trees has always been part of my life, without my ever understanding why. Reading Buzzati’s tale helped me comprehend my passion. And it is precisely for this reason that I associate it with Petrarch, fully aware of how bold such a connection is. When Francesco Petrarch recounts his walks in Provence and Tuscany, I recognize the feeling that stirs within me whenever I, too, make my way through the forest: the desire for detachment from the world’s frenzy, a reunion with oneself—solitary, silent, absorbed in physical exertion, steeped in the vitality of the trees, conscious of the bond connecting all living beings. Often, as I wander free and aimless amid the light and sounds of the forest, the lines of Canto XXXV of the *Canzoniere* come to mind: > alone and lost in thought the most deserted fields / I go measuring with steps slow and halting, / and keep my eyes alert to flee / wherever human trace marks the sand .