Sebastiano Vassalli

In 1795, Immanuel Kant drafted a "project for perpetual peace" designed to eradicate war forever. For the German philosopher, as for all of us, only peace guarantees well-being and happiness. And what if this were not so? What if war were the ideal condition for humanity? In the year 3012 AD, men have lived in peace for centuries; yet feelings of solidarity, loyalty, and friendship have dissolved, replaced by a pervasive and immense hatred that requires a ruthless repressive apparatus to be kept in check. The author imagines that, after twenty centuries, a researcher discovers a manuscript by an anonymous writer recounting the advent of the Prophet, the one who preached "perpetual war." According to the anonymous chronicler (doubt is necessary, as legend and historical fact intertwine), the Prophet was a young *vitellone* named Antalo, who lived in Fellinia working as a porn star. He fell in love with a splendid woman who convinced him to follow her to the "Capital of the World," a megalopolis of fifty million inhabitants. It was a trap: his body was meant to rejuvenate wealthy old men, desperate to regain their former vigor. Antalo managed to escape and would become the protagonist of numerous adventures—some amusing, others chilling, all of them astonishing, and often serving as a metaphor for today's world, Italy in particular. At a writers' competition (Antalo was the author of incomprehensible poems, the subject of constant and conflicting interpretations), the future Prophet met a young woman who had entered with war novels and introduced him to a fourteenth-century poem describing chivalric clashes, massacres, and quartered bodies, extolling war, martial courage, concord among fighters, and magnanimity toward the vanquished. It was a revelation. > He put down the book. He held his head in his hands and a Voice spoke within him, saying: go and announce to the world that the accursed age of peace has ended. (...) The darkness will be torn asunder, the virtues believed lost will shine once more, and the brightest among those virtues will be generosity, the love of justice, and mercy toward the weak . But what will be the rules of this new era of war? Chivalric customs and respect for nature. And indeed, in the "memorable sayings" through which the Prophet outlined his vision, it is written: > the war that God wills is just and holy, as long as it is waged against true enemies. But if an enemy, to escape me, climbs a tree, I cannot cut down the tree to bring him down, for the tree is not my enemy . The editor informs us that a new era dawned, but of the "beautiful, just, holy, and necessary" war, little remained. Men > began slitting one another's throats with such enthusiasm that no natural or supernatural force could have stopped them anymore. The human race, then, lived through an unrepeatable season of violence and bloodshed, but was no unhappier than it had been in the past. On the contrary, it was almost happy . And so the anonymous chronicler was right to conclude, > and thus all that is born of man on this Earth is destined to pass away. (...) Amen . It should be made clear that the book is not an essay, but a fully fledged novel, set in a fantastical yet not improbable future. It is a sequence of events over the course of which poor Antalo, a naive young man, finds himself, in spite of himself, the victim of mysterious and incomprehensible forces, all of them violent and cruel. Even when he kills, he does so because he is forced to, refusing to become a manhunter (one of the pastimes in the era of peace), despite knowing that this choice would save his life. Likewise, he rejects rampant corruption and longs to love, not merely to have sexual encounters. He is, in short, "a fish out of water" in the > Great Capital of the World; and it is precisely this innocence that makes him a visionary, capable of giving humanity and the world a sense of perspective. Through an ostensibly ironic and cynical novel, Vassalli wants to tell us that utopia is necessary, but it demands free and naive spirits. The prose is very far removed from that of *The Chimera*, but this is as it must be, for it is an account aimed at capturing the bare essence of the Prophet's story. The flaw of the narrative lies in its excessive references to contemporary Italy—amusing at first, but ultimately tedious and predictable: it almost seems as if the author wanted to settle so many scores". Why read it? It is astonishing.

In the *Tuttolibri* supplement of *La Stampa* of January 18, 2021, Donatella Di Cesare reviews Giorgio Agamben's book *La Follia di Hölderlin*: a volume recounting the events that led the great poet to shut himself away in an asylum, from 1802 to 1846. Was it true madness or, as Schelling suspected, had his friend "assumed the outward manners of one who is mad"? Hölderlin was > torn, in an existential condition that seemed to push him outside and beyond his era . Sebastiano Vassalli seeks to answer the same question, retracing the life of Dino Campana through a biography that is both documented and fictionalized, as the writer himself describes it; in doing so, he dismantles the cliché that Campana's poetry stemmed from madness. Just as it is difficult to believe that Hölderlin, out of his mind, could have translated Sophocles into German, so we wonder whether a madman could have created an absolute masterpiece like *Genova* (from *Canti Orfici*): > Since the cloud came to rest in the skies/Far over the silent infinite/Seashore enclosed in distant veils,/And the departed soul returned/For all around it was arcane-/ly illuminated the garden's green/dream in the superhuman apparition/Of its flashing proud statues: Let us stop here, because one would be tempted to speak only of this poem, rather than of Campana's mournful life. Born in 1885 in Marradi. > Stocky, blondish, of medium height, (...) He had copper-blond hair, thick and curly, framing a face glowing with health: two small moustaches that stopped at the corners of his lips, and a thrifty goatee that did not stray too far from his chin Thus a friend describes him in 1912, when the young Campana, already deemed mad by his family and by the whole of Marradi, had been cast out several times: first by locking him up in the asylum of Imola, then shipped off to Argentina with a one-way ticket, later, upon his return, sent to the Florence asylum, and subsequently led to live in modest boarding houses across the Tuscan-Romagnolo Apennines. In 1914, Campana published *Canti Orfici* at his own expense, which brought him his first taste of renown and opened the arms of Sibilla Aleramo, with whom he would have a stormy love affair. Finally, in 1918, diagnosed with syphilitic dementia, he was committed to an asylum, where he died in 1932. Vassalli retraces Campana's human ordeal with the same passion and documentary commitment found in one of his masterpieces, *La Chimera*. The protagonist, a young woman exposed to village gossip because she was free and beautiful, was guilty of making love to a "wayfarer," at night under an old oak tree believed to be the devil's abode: for this, she was burned at the stake as a witch (see the review on this site). In *3012* > , also reviewed on this site, a young slacker from Fellinia wants to bring war back into a terrifying world where peace is imposed through repression: he preaches chivalric war and is killed by the guardians of peace, becoming the Prophet. Both were persecuted because they were "out of step," free yet fragile spirits. Thus was Dino Campana. The author writes: "I was looking for madmen: I found madmen. (...) Each madman told me his story. (...) Most of them were people who caused trouble. (...) People who had to be gotten rid of by sending them to America or Australia, or by interning them in an asylum. (...) By day, I lived among the mad; by night, in the hotel, I kept dreaming their stories." For them, "the asylum is a great sounding board/and delirium becomes an echo/anonymity a measure,/the asylum is Mount Sinai,/accursed, upon which you receive/the tablets of a law/unknown to men." (Alda Merini from *La Terra Santa*). And so, nothing remains for the alleged madmen but to sing with Campana: "I know not if among rocks your pale/Face appeared to me, or smile/Of unknown distances/(...) And still through tender distant skies clear running shadows/And still I call you I call you Chimera." (*La Chimera* from *Canti Orfici*). *La notte della cometa* dates from 1984; at the time it sparked controversy: some accused the author of inaccuracies if not outright falsehoods, accusations that stemmed from the disinformation generated by Campana's first biographer (suffice it to recall that as late as 1993, Alberto Asor Rosa, in his preface to *Canti Orfici*, still repeated the far-fetched tale of the poet landing in Odessa on his return from America and then walking to Antwerp, where he had in fact disembarked from the ship *Odessa*); others, such as Edoardo Sanguineti, read Vassalli's reconstruction superciliously, especially where the author sheds light on the relationship between Campana and Soffici (Sanguineti, in his anthology of twentieth-century Italian poetry, groups Campana among the "Vociani," even though Dino despised the journal *La Voce*); still others took offense and sued the writer, such as the municipality of Marradi, because Vassalli had exposed the rancor and malice of the Marradesi toward their great fellow citizen. These are all dated controversies, which flatten Dino Campana's unique and marvelous poetics down to his wretched life. The real question to ask today is another: where does Campana's poetry originate, who were his masters, how did he arrive, while still so young, at compositions so unusual and extraordinary for our literature? Perhaps Asor Rosa is right that > there is nothing left today but to reread him as an isolated and somewhat mysterious fruit of our deepest Italian viscera (Alberto Asor Rosa, preface to *Canti Orfici*, ed. L'Unità 1993); that is, somewhat like Grazia Deledda's *Canne al vento* (see review on this site). Is this sufficient, or is it time to investigate Dino Campana's poetry more deeply? With all due admiration for Sebastiano Vassalli, one must acknowledge the shortcomings of this fictionalized biography: fragmentary and at times muddled, repetitive and verbose, it strives for literary effect at the expense of the overall vision, and it neglects the poet's literary and intellectual formation by reducing it to a sort of solitary quest, thereby paradoxically endorsing the cliché of the "eccentric" poet: not mad, but odd. Why read it? It is a book that sheds light on Campana's life, and also on what the asylum truly was.

> Before me, on my desk, as I write, lies a color photograph... The photograph of Antonia , or rather of one of the many Madonnas, all so alike, painted by an itinerant painter in the early years of the seventeenth century. > Those eyes, black as night and bright as day; that mole on her upper lip; those full, red lips, and then that rebellious curl escaping from the drapery onto her left cheek .... it was a faithful copy of the portrait of Antonia, the fifteen-year-old witch of Zardino. We may assume it was this photograph of an adolescent girl—«a state of grace, even before an age»—that prompted Vassalli to narrate > a grand tale, of a girl who lived between 1590 and 1610..., and of the people who were alive alongside her, during the very years she lived, and whom she knew; of that era and of those places . The places are Novara and a small village, now vanished. Zardino > was a village like those others visible down there, a little to the left and slightly beyond the second overpass; beneath the greatest and most imposing mountain in this part of Europe, Monte Rosa. (...) A chimera! From up there, from the summit of the chimera today one sees > a hazy plain with a few scattered trees and a highway emerging from the mist ; back then, in the seventeenth century, one gazed upon > a landscape of vineyards and woods stretching toward the marshes and the riverbanks; of meadows and *baragie* (wastelands, heaths) (...); of fields of maize, wheat, and rice paddies and a settlement which > between the houses was grey, cramped, primitive, and yet, in the fair season, all abloom with bindweed and climbing wild roses . In this era and in these places Antonia spent her brief life: abandoned at birth, having survived infancy, adopted by a peasant family of Zardino whose modest prosperity aroused envy and rancor, the girl was too beautiful, proud, and independent not to become the focus of gossip and spite among the village crones: she, «a foundling», what did she think she was, a fine little lady! Perhaps she might have grown into womanhood, married, and had children, had circumstances not dragged her toward a ruthless death. She becomes infatuated with a «camminante», that is, one of those «anarchists of the countryside» who wandered in hatred «of all servitude». Enamored precisely of his free spirit, of his tales of travel and cities, Antonia commits the imprudence of meeting him at night, at dusk, beneath an ancient oak tree that local lore held to be a haunt of evil spirits, the dwelling place of the Devil. A fanatical young priest denounces her to the Holy Office, accusing her of witchcraft. As chance would have it, a power struggle is underway between the Inquisitorial Court and the Bishop’s Curia, and poor Antonia becomes the unwitting victim of this political clash. A scorching heat, a prolonged drought, and the dread of epidemics fuel the search for a scapegoat: and who better than a wretched peasant girl, far too reckless and spirited? > The flames crackled high, night became bright as day, tongues of fire merged into a single blaze. (...) The witch’s hair could be seen vanishing into nothingness and her mouth opening in a soundless scream. (...) Antonia was no more. The crowd’s jubilation erupted. (...) Then, at last, the celebration began . In the preface, entitled «Nothingness», Vassalli offers us a metaphysical interpretation: > to search for the keys to the present, and to understand it, one must step out of the noise: go to the depths of night, or to the depths of nothingness . If one steps away from the clamor and passion of our time, one realizes that history, and our very existence, are nothing more than a purposeless, meaningless flux—nothingness, precisely. Why was Antonia sent to the stake? Why was she not granted the right to live? To prevent time from closing in upon us, to keep nothingness from reclaiming us, perhaps only a God could intervene, but > he is the echo of all our vain shouting. (...) He who knows the before and the after and the reasons for everything, and yet, alas, cannot tell them to us for this single, utterly futile reason: that he does not exist. With all due respect to the author, we must say that the novel’s enchantment does not reside in its philosophy of history; what captivates are the characters and the setting. To be sure, they have all vanished, yet to us readers they still appear so profoundly alive in their feelings, in the petty and momentous motives that stir them and drive them to love, to believe, to survive, even through suffering. And what of Antonia, a seventeenth-century figure yet so modern in her naive yearnings and wonder? Here she is arriving in Zardino, still a child. > The foundling, huddled between two sacks, watched it (the Novara countryside) flow past her wide-open eyes; and who knows what crossed her mind, seeing for the first time the mountains reflected and shattered in the mirrors of the rice paddies, and the long rows of pollarded willows, and all the rest. (...) Perhaps, indeed probably, she was thinking of nothing; letting herself be lulled by the swaying of the cart and distracted by the novelty and variety of the sights (...) a heron standing motionless in the midst of a paddy, a flight of ducks... Never mind metaphysics—this is true love for one’s protagonist! Vassalli is a great writer from a stylistic standpoint as well. The syntax is rich and articulate, marked by a masterful use of punctuation. The detailed descriptions of the landscape, the nuanced depiction of characters—even the most odious among them, such as the executioner or the grand inquisitor—and the deft deployment of adjectives are all elements that render the narrative fluid and engaging. Its only limitation, perhaps, is the excessive reliance on quotations from historical documents, almost as if striving to confer reliability upon the narrative. Why read it? Beautiful, enjoyable, compelling, and profound.