#Paola Volpe

[andre83us]

Quei cieli padani porte verso l'Eterno

“Il cielo parla” è il volume di fotografie di Paola Volpe, con testi di don Graziano Donà: un invito ad alzare lo sguardo e il cuore di Andrea Musacci Pezzi di anima che la nostra immaginazione illuminata dal cuore proietta in alto, in una visione speciale, più interiore che esteriore. Sono i cieli che Paola Volpe ha fotografato e raccolto in un volume in uscita questo mese, “Il cielo parla”…

[everythingdaily]

WOMEN'S SUFFRAGE IN MOVIES

. Suffragette (by Sarah Gavron, the UK, 2015)

. Die göttliche Ordnung (The Divine Order, by Petra Volpe, Switzerland, 2017)

. C'è Ancora Domani (There's Still Tomorrow, by Paola Cortellesi, Italy, 2023)

[tkwritesdumbassassins]

Fic Lines Tag Game!

Thanks to @thana-topsy for tagging me on this! It was a lot of fun to think about some of this!

I'm pulling from Justitia the most, but don't be surprised if I post from one of my unfinished WIPs or from the (slow going) rewrite.

A line from your fic that makes you laugh

I was actually joking in hopes that the matter would wait until after we got back from vacation to talk about." Greg vented a feigned exasperated sigh as she folded her arms and fixed him a disapproving look. He further slumped in his chair, taking another sip from his scotch trying to hide the mock pout. "But of course not, should have known better. I gotta wonder if you even take breaks after work anymore." "Yeah, it's called a binge-watch of Supernatural with some tequila and imagining Dean Winchester buckass naked in a big tub of liquid caramel going 'lick me.'" Tristan bluntly replied without so much as a blink, earning herself a choke and a cough from Greg.

Prologue—Bad Moon Rising

I've so many scenes I laugh at, sometimes I wonder that I accidentally wrote a romantic comedy. But THIS ONE

Without fail, I always laugh. It's my first. It's the classic

A line from your fic that makes you sad

Something tore at Federico the very moment he caught sight of white robes. At first, he thought he had imagined it amongst the sea of cold faces— because surely there was no other presence besides that of Paola and maybe Volpe (assuming he was even in the city still.)  Still— a tiny hope flickered behind his chest. Perhaps their numbers were not as few as his father suspected initially. But that hope was quickly snuffed and replaced with a dawning horror when he noted how ill-fitting the robes were as they hung loosely around the figure. God, how familiar they were. Nausea struck him when he recognized the design and color scheme of the robes as his father’s. Which could only mean—  He’s not ready. He had heard those words from their father every time he inquired about it. And every time, he would walk out of the suddenly stifling office frustrated and perplexed. Why? Federico always tried to reason. He had been told roughly of their heritage the same age as Ezio is now. What more could he teach without letting it slip that all he had done was for something far grander than wanton youth? Of course, his father never swayed; his word was final, after all, and no doubt their mother had her fair say as well. And thus, he would play the part, acting the big brother, all the while secretly wishing he could admit everything. But now? Of all the days to see his brother adorned in their station—ignorant of both its heavy burden and attached message, it was fated to be Federico’s last. And it was fucking ironic.

Chapter XII This is Not Fantastique

A little bit of a long one, but man. I put my poor dude through the ringer on this chapter. ANGST ANGST ANGST.

A line from your fic you're proud of

Even now, they could hear the clangor of far-off soldiers as they swept up and down the streets. Once, they even had to hurriedly hide in the shadows of a nearby alleyway as a pair of bundled riders came through amongst flurries of snow and creaking leather, their horses’ heads bent low. They had been so close; Tristan had been able to see the whites of their steeds’ rolling eyes and the steam rolling off of their flanks as they cantered down the street, quick to be swallowed by white curtains.

Chapter XIII Exit Music (For a Family)

I think I took a solid twenty minutes on this one because out of 165k words and 24 chapters, I had SO many to choose from. But in the end, this one kept coming back to mind. I'm a sucker for descriptions, y'all.

A line from your fic you think could have been better

Even from afar, the tall and slender beauty had what seemed to be the loveliest of features, despite the paleness of her skin that spoke volumes of how often she left the walls of her family's palazzo.

Chapter II A Not So Good Ol Fashioned Lover Boy (i.e. FEDERICO'S FIRST APPEARANCE)

....it's been a few years, and I feel this could be better written.

A line from your fic that makes you want to punch a character

"It's Tristan, and I'm here to help, you jackass," she snapped, too late realizing she should be acting more like the adult than she actually was. Worse still— she cocked a hip, matching his stare as if she was some kind of teenager again. "Duh." Real classy there. She blew the chiding voice off, setting hands on her hips. "Oh?" A brow rose as he stepped forward just a smidge, practically towering over her. She could feel the annoyance and anger rising off of him as they had a little stare down. When his tactic didn't work, his eyes narrowed. "Like you helped Federico? In that case, you can help by leaving." She blinked, and her breath exhaled in one whoosh of air. It was like she had been slapped and visibly flinched. He took advantage of her lapse to shoulder past her, shooting a nasty glare, his voice dripping in venom as he next spoke, "Because I think you've done plenty enough."

Chapter X Take a Chance on Me

Fucking Ezio. But then again, I think most (including me) forget he's a 17 year old thrust into a shit situation. Plus this stranger is just appearing, so I'm not sure I blame him.

Anyway, yeah I wanted to slap him for that one

A line from your fic that makes you go 'aww'

“Your head...” Tristan scooted closer, a hand placed on his cheek to gently turn it. “Did that happen in the fight?” It took her far too long to realize that she was actively touching him.  As a result, she pulled her hand back, pretending to brush imaginary debris out of his hair, looking flustered because of it, but he appeared or at least pretended not to notice as he shrugged. “It’s alright,” he tried not to flinch when he ghosted his own fingers over it. “And... no, I just...” He grew flustered again, and Tristan found the action rather endearing as he started rubbing the back of his head only to mutter, “Uh, bumped it against the ground when the rope was cut.” “When the rop—” She froze as it dawned on her, and she proceeded to stammer, “Oh-oh, God. ‘Rico! I’m so so sorry— I didn’t mean to—” He cut her off with waving hands, trying not to laugh, but failing horribly at it. “Don’t be. I’m alive, aren’t I? You saw to that.” A hand reached over and squeezed her own. A corner of his lip quirked. “Just consider us even now.” Tristan opened her mouth but then shut it as her eyes narrowed. She had the mind to chastise him that hitting his head on a cobblestone street was a much different experience before a calloused hand interrupted that train of thought by gently cupping her chin. Well, she startled owlishly; safe to say she hadn’t seen that coming. Now it was her turn to be the patient as his eyes looked her over. “Although, I am afraid that you haven’t fared much better either. That is a ghastly bruise if I ever saw one,” he murmured, turning her head slightly. Tristan didn’t need to ask for confirmation as to which one he was referring to, for she winced when the skin was pulled tight around her cheek in the action. She noted he appeared melancholic as he dropped his hand. “May I ask as to how you got it?”

Chapter XIV Angel of Small Theft and the Aspirin Scene

I love my two dorks. :)

A line from your fic that's full of symbolism

Claudia pursed her lips, but Tristan saw understanding, sympathy even. Her attention flicked briefly downstairs to where they could hear Maria murmuring to what sounded like Annetta. The stony stature seemed to have a crack in it as she spoke next: “Perhaps you could write to her.” Tristan opened her mouth to say that wasn’t quite possible given the current circumstances, but then her mind flashed back to the notebook cozily tucked into her bag. “Perhaps, I should,” she tactfully responded just as they arrived on the second floor.

Chapter XV The Kids Aren't Alright

uhm yes

I've a ton, and finding just ONE is difficult. But I think this one speaks for itself.

A line from your fic that contains an Easter egg

There were letters, she noted. Lots of letters that she respectfully set to the side. One decided to slip out of her hand anyway, opening just enough to reveal a name, Kassandra before she hurriedly closed it again and placed it on top of the neat pile. Even in death, a man was still afforded his privacy, and Giovanni's Assassin affairs were not any of her business, either.

Chapter XIX Alone Together

:) Assassin's Creed Odyssey fans will know this one.

A line from your fic that's shocking

“You’re… not the same age, are you?” She spoke in a hushed tone, unsure if she wanted to hear it. When he shook his head, driving the last nail into the coffin of what little remains there were of her denial, she swallowed. “How... how long ago was it then?” She cleared her throat. “What year?” He furrowed his brows but stayed silent— and after what seemed too long, she wondered if he was going to deny her an answer. She conceded perhaps that was a good thing. Maybe the truth deserved to stay buried, and the both of them could pretend this was nothing more than a misunderstanding and a case of mistaken identity. Nonetheless, he cleared his throat after what felt like forever and a year and answered with a subtle tone of discomfort as if he too realized the sudden weight of his words. “1454.”

Chapter VII Thanks for the Memories (Even if they Weren't So Great)

For those unawares: I write time travel. My story deals with it a lot, on top of righting old wrongs and fixing a bunch of things I think Ubisoft could have done better. My poor OC/Protagonist is the victim of being at the wrong right spot at the wrong right time. But it's not until THIS moment does she (and the audience) realize shit is seriously wack.

A line from your fic you want to talk about more

“There was once a king in search of a new home. He and his men ventured far and wide but could find nothing. One day, he decided to go out for a hunt and released his eagle—a loyal companion— to aid him. He watched as the great bird of prey flew up and up before perching on a ledge high up the cliff face. It was then, the king realized he had found his new home, and do you know what he called it?” She, and her six-year-old self, shook her head. One foot buried deep in denial, and the other in childhood curiosity.

“Aluh amut.”

The placard became more menacing as the word glared at her from its bronze pedestal: Alamut. “But we know it more as ‘Alamut.’” She had scrunched up her nose. “That’s a funny word.” “It’s Persian,” he had smiled in that quiet humor of his, “it means the ‘Eagle’s Nest.’”

Chapter VI With a Little Help from (Surprising) Friends

I wrote this back in 2020? 2021 I think? After 14 years of Asssassin's Creed, Alamut had only been described vaguely and once as a one-off adventure, but never once featured in the games. And that upset me BECAUSE HISTORICALLY SPEAKING ALAMUT WAS THE HOME OF THE PEOPLE WHO— *beats back historical diatribe*

ahem

So! Understandably speaking, imagine my pleasant and utter delight when Assassin's Creed Mirage was announced and the ancient home of the Ḥashashiyan—the real-life inspiration of the games. :)

AND WOW that was a long doozy. I hope you enjoyed!

I (no pressure) tag @satashiiwrites @quietborderline @musetta3 @missanniewhimsy @outtoshatter @elisela

[raetttriestowrite]

Chapter 7 of Desynchronised is up!

Summary:

Anger is a great force. If you control it, it can be turned into a power which can move the whole world. - William Shenstone. Aka Claudia seeks out the people who are always their allies.

[sotally-tober-ac]

Imagine 18

Claudia, Caterina, Rosa and Sofia having a sleep over.

[lives-in-a-harpsichord]

a piece of Assassin’s Creed fanart I finally scanned

these people are up to no good, I’m pretty sure

and in Italian, no less

[teatitty]

Man replaying AC2 and actually paying attention to the years that certain events happen is so much fun because it never clicked in my head before now that Ezio spent 4 - 5 years doing Assassin things on his own before he got officially inducted into the Brotherhood. His uncle never inducted him and Lorenzo and La Volpe probably just assumed he was already part of it but Paola spent that whole time hearing about Ezio’s rep and going “I do not see. I will not tell any of my associates about this”

It’s not until he gets to Venice and meets Teodora and Machiavelli and the like that he gets that official induction lmao

[flowers-all-around-me]

Spill Your Blood - Febuwhump day 3

For the prompt “Blood Loss.”

For some reason, this gave me a lot of trouble in spite of how rich of a prompt it is. Might be that I just don’t think I can top yesterday’s stroke of genius :’) But! I have managed to stick with the @febuwhump challenge for a third day, yay me!

Rating: Teen and Up Fandom: Assassin’s Creed (specifically Assassin’s Creed 2) Relationships: Ezio Auditore & Leonardo da Vinci Characters: Ezio Auditore, Leonardo da Vinci

CONTENT WARNING: Injury, canonical character death mention. There is some blood, but nothing is described too graphically.

Text under Read More, or read on my AO3!

Spill Your Blood

Francesco de Pazzi was dead. Ezio personally hung his corpse from the Signoria. Jacopo saw it too, and Ezio could have sworn their eyes crossed for a moment. Perhaps that was why he turned and fled.

Good, Ezio thought, taking a shaky breath. He would not have caught up to him anyway. Not without a horse of his own. And at least like this, he was certain that Florence would no longer be bothered by him and his family.

So Ezio made sure to get away from the Signoria. Lorenzo would know who has done the deed. He asked him for it after all. But that didn’t mean that any investigating guards would be as understanding. Especially if they happened to be affiliated with the Pazzi.

So he climbed down, aiming for a small side alley that was completely abandoned thanks to the fights in the city. Ezio fell down and stumbled, hissing in pain as the rush of the battle began to fade. Every single ache his body resurfaced with a vengeance, from the climbs to the fight with both the guards and Francesco.

Especially the wound on his side.

It was stupid. He fell for one of Francesco's taunts and swung his sword too early, too brashly. And all he got was a dagger slashing into his side, like he was an amateur. He was lucky it only caught the surface and would probably be non-lethal. Probably being the operative word, given how much he kept moving with it bleeding happily.

Ezio pressed his hand against it, realising it came back bloody. Of course, idiot, he cursed internally, you got a knife to the side. It was a small mercy that it was the side with his cape. For a while, he would be able to conceal the bloody stain on his clothes until he would get to safety.

But where could he even go? The doctors in this city would be busy, not to mention they were as likely to treat him as they were to throw him out. After all, the name Auditore was never properly cleared. And his murder of Uberto Alberti did not help it, given how public he made it.

He would not abuse Paola's hospitality, not to mention he would not want to cause trouble in her house with stumbling in injured. And La Volpe was not someone he could trust like this. He was certain the mistrust went both ways, too.

No, he would not trouble either of them.

But there was one more person in the city whom he trusted. Someone who admitted to having medicinal knowledge, even if mostly used for autopsies.

So Ezio clenched his trembling hand before pressing it into his side to at least slow the bleeding. And, leaning on the wall, he began to make his way through the city. Slowly, surely, approaching Leonardo's workshop. By the time he reached it, his head felt light like he has been drinking. And he was certain that some blood began dripping past his hand onto the ground beneath him. At least it felt like something dripped between his fingers, but it could have been caught by the rest of his robes.

What a way to visit after such a day, trailing blood and barely standing. The thought almost made Ezio laugh. Almost.

But there was light inside and Ezio's feet carried him the last few feet to the door. He didn't knock as much as he fell on top of the engraved wood, before he managed to regain his balance. Or at least lean on the wall beside it instead of the door itself.

But the noise itself appeared to be enough, as the door soon opened.

"Ezio? I- What happened?" Leonardo asked, eyes falling to what was by now no doubt a large red stain on Ezio's robes, cape or not.

"Leonardo, I- I need your help," Ezio managed to slur out the obvious. "Sorry about this."

He barely managed to get out the words when his vision stopped swimming and instead felt like it did a flip. His knees buckled and Ezio stumbled right into his friends' arms. The injury, and all the movement he did with it, finally caught up to him and Ezio’s world went dark.

[loudmound]

asscreed for the blorbos!

THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK Y

blorbo (favorite character, character I think about the most):

ezio auditore da firenze. no one will ever top my love for her. fuck with me. i dare you.

scrunkly (my “baby”, character that gives me cuteness aggression, character that is So Shaped):

ALSO PROBABLY EZIO? i'm putting him in my pocket so he can see the world.

scrimblo bimblo (underrated/underappreciated fave):

fuckin... clay kaczmarek, honest to god. ppl either write him off as mental illness man scary and play into that characterization in really fucking weird ways or just don't know he even exists at all 😭

glup shitto (obscure fave, character that can appear in the background for 0.2 seconds and I won’t shut up about it for a week):

proooooobably la volpe? i think henis cool and we don't see too much of them in the ezio trilogy. i wanna see them looking thru walls cuz that shit RULES. ALSO PAOLA (GRIPPING)

poor little meow meow (“problematic”/unpopular/controversial/otherwise pathetic fave):

VIERI DE' PAZZI. SORRY. I THINK HE'S INTERESTING.

horse plinko (character I would torment for fun, for whatever reason):

also vieri de' pazzi. i want him to get what he deserves and to learn from it.

eeby deeby (character I would send to superhell):

william miles, uberto alberti, duccio... also machiavelli bc that's funny to me.

[eternalflxmes]

Get to Know Me!

Tagged by/Stolen from: @arrhythmiiia​ Tagging: steal it from me

alias / name: kabuki/paola

birthday: may 5th

zodiac sign: taurus !

height: 4′ 11″ lmao

hobbies: drawing both traditionally, digitally, rping, sometimes writing, sewing, plush making, playing video games, reading graphic novels

favorite color: black, pink, red, (red looks good on me i love it the most)

favorite book: i dont read books like i used to lmao. but if i were to choose ones i read in the past, it’d be any books by Mary Downing Hahn. She does amazing ghost/supernatural stories. 

last song: Losing My Way by Justin Timberlake.

last film / show: Transformers Rescue Bots (ROLL TO THE RESCUE)

recent reads: Currently reading American Born Chinese by Gene Luen Yang

inspirations: artists: Derrick J Wyatt, Craig McCraken, Giancarlo Volpe, Nicolas Marlet, Bruce Timm, Jennifer Yuh Nelson, Vincent Van Gogh, Josh Perez, 

story behind url: eternal flames---meant to be symbolizing shen’s self perception, who he is, the element fire itself being such a prominent representation of him. also sorta referencing the name of his ancestral family home tower, the Sacred Flame.

fun fact about me: i have become casual mutuals with two of my inspirations in the list above, and have even sent them one of my original artworks.

[kisstheassassins]

Assassin’s Creed 2-Brotherhood OC.

Rosalina Aluino de Barichara.

🌿

Pᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟ

🌿 

Pʀᴏɴᴜɴᴄɪᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ; Rossa-Leena / Ah-Loo-Ee-No

Gᴇɴᴅᴇʀ ; Female

Aɢᴇ ; 17 when Ezio’s journey began in 1476, and is 37 by the time Brotherhood ends in 1503.

Bɪʀᴛʜ Dᴀᴛᴇ ; November 20th, 1459.

Oᴄᴄᴜᴘᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ; Assassin, thief.

Nᴀᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ ; Colombian.

Aᴄᴄᴇɴᴛ ; Latina.

Zᴏᴅɪᴀᴄ ; Scorpio

Hᴏᴍᴇ ; Current home is the Villa in Monteriggioni. While growing up it was in Barichara, Colombia. Once moved to Italy she lived with La Volpe as her mentor and step father in Rome.

Eᴅᴜᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ;

Hᴏʙʙɪᴇs ; Horseback riding, swordsmanship, running, hand-to-hand combat. 

Hᴀʙɪᴛ﹙s﹚ ; Biting her lower lip, pacing when anxious, fighting impulse to give passing guards the bird.

Aᴅᴅɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ﹙s﹚ ; None.

Pʜᴏʙɪᴀ﹙s﹚ ; Spiders.

🌿

Lᴏᴠᴇ Lɪғᴇ

🌿

Sᴇxᴜᴀʟɪᴛʏ ; Straight.

Pᴀʀᴛɴᴇʀ; Ezio Auditore.

Pʀᴇғᴇʀʀᴇᴅ Pᴀʀᴛɴᴇʀ ; Ezio Auditore.

Pᴀsᴛ Lᴏᴠᴇʀs ; None.

🌿

Rᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴsʜɪᴘs

🌿

Pᴀʀᴇɴᴛs ; James Aluino (father), Carmen Aluino (mother).

Sɪʙʟɪɴɢs ; None.

Cʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ ; Lola Auditore (daughter), Giovanni Auditore (son).

Friends ; Literally all of the assassins you see on screen. 

🌿

Sᴇxᴜᴀʟ

🌿

Pᴏsɪᴛɪᴏɴ ; Top but can switch.

Kɪɴᴋs ; Biting.

Tᴜʀɴ Oɴ﹙s﹚ ; Husked tones, deep voices, whispers.

Tᴜʀɴ Oғғ﹙s﹚ ; Brashness, being forceful.

🌿

Pʜʏsɪᴄᴀʟ

🌿

Hᴇɪɢʜᴛ ; 5′7″

Wᴇɪɢʜᴛ ; 163lbs.

Bᴜɪʟᴅ ; Athletic, toned.

Eʏᴇs Cᴏʟᴏᴜʀ ; Dark brown.

Hᴀɪʀ Cᴏʟᴏᴜʀ ; Dark brown, almost black.

Sᴋɪɴ ; Tan, caramel. 

Cʟᴏᴛʜᴇs ; Assassin robes mostly. Will wear light shirt and pants and knee boots if not on duty.

🌿

Aʙsᴛʀᴀᴄᴛ

🌿

Lɪᴋᴇs ; New books, new weapons, new horse tack, Ezio. 

Lᴏᴠᴇs ; Reading, training, horse riding, her horse Nero, her friends, Ezio, carnivale.

Eɴᴊᴏʏs ; Watching sunsets and sunrises, horse rides, being near horses, being at the stables.

Sᴋɪʟʟᴇᴅ Aᴛ ; Swordsmanship, hand-to-hand combat, running, horse handling.

Pᴏsɪᴛɪᴠᴇ Aᴛᴛʀɪʙᴜᴛᴇ ; Quick thinking. 

Dɪsʟɪᴋᴇs ; The Borgia, animal cruelty, laziness. 

Hᴀᴛᴇs ; Large crowds, broken equipment, mistreated equipment, animal cruelty. 

Nᴇɢᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ Aᴛᴛʀɪʙᴜᴛᴇ ; Short tempered.

🌿

Exᴛʀᴀ

🌿

Pɪᴇʀᴄɪɴɢ﹙s﹚ ; Earrings in earlobes.

Tᴀᴛᴛᴏᴏ﹙s﹚ ; None.

Sᴄᴀʀs Oʀ Aɴʏ Pᴀsᴛ Iɴᴊᴜʀɪᴇs ; Scar over nose from enemy blade.

Pᴇᴛ﹙s﹚ ; Black Arabian named Nero.

Pᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ ; Gets the job done, hard-headed, brash, somewhat patient, stubborn, straightforward, light footed, loyal, determined. 

Pᴀsᴛ ; She was pretty much born into the Brotherhood. Both parents were Assassins and they began her training when she was only 7. With Rosa being hard headed and determined as she is she began to see these sessions as goals, and that they had to be finished. She wanted to be strong, and to prove to everyone that she wasn't weak and that she could do things on her own.

Later on when she's older, about 10, her parents begin her history lessons about the Creed and their enemies, and why this is all so important to everyone and the world. Rosa gets frustrated with her studies but she is determined to finish and remember everything, and eventually she packs everything down. She's smart and knows her stuff.

However when she's 13 Templars invade her home and Rosa's parents get her out in time, telling her to seek her grandparents the town over. She runs, and turning back she sees her house in flames, and in her heart she knows that her parents are gone, most likely dead. The Templars do chase her, but thanks to her lessons and what she has learned she hides away easily and avoids them, blending in with the city crowds.

When she reaches her grandparents it's not long before Rosa realizes that by being here she endangers them. She decides she has to leave. Her grandparents tell her of a close family friend that would watch over her and continue her training as an Assassin, as he is one himself. Rosa sets sail with a guide to Rome, and seeks out a man named La Volpe in the countryside.

She arrives a week or more later and uses her skills to find where he is. However her asking around for him doesn't go unnoticed. La Volpe finds her first and immediately recognizes her, as her parents were close friends with him. He realizes that if she's here, then something bad must have happened. He takes her in and basically adopts her into his residence, and it's not long before he's continuing his training with her. He knows Spanish so he's able to teach her Italian as well along the way, as it would be much needed to live where they were.

Through more years of training and developing personal skills, Rosa finally meets the ither Assassin's in the other cities: Machiavelli, Bartolomeo, Paola, and even Giovanni Auditore. They mentor her when they can, giving advice and even attending some sparring sessions and tests for Rosa, to see if she is ready to take the oath or not. It was through her friendship with Giovanni she met his family while on a mission in Florence. And so began her relationship with them.

Age 17, she's taken the pledge/oath of an Assassin, training now completed. She makes frequent visits to Florence since she works at the stables for some side money, wanting to make a somewhat honest living about acquiring money and not just by stealing it. She likes to work anyways, keep herself busy.

With the job she had she was frequently visited by Giovanni and his family, as they grew curious of their friendship at first. Once they visited Rosa more often with Giovanni they would come to her on their own. And Rosa had to report to Giovanni as well when she was on missions in Florence.

Upon hearing the death of Giovanni and his two sons she steps in to help Ezio get his family out of the city, and hunt down those who harmed his family, and those behind it. Thus began her relationship with Ezio.

[tkwritesdumbassassins]

For the WIP ask game - sea, seashell, seafood. (Going for a theme this time 😂)

HAHA I FOUND ONE🤣

At first, he thought he had imagined it amongst the sea of cold faces— because surely there was no other presence besides that of Paola and maybe Volpe (assuming he was even in the city still.) 

[storytimefromthecreed]

What Could Have Been

Inspired by the AU @wardisahi I started writing and it became this. Enjoy!

“Sleeping all day?” The voice giggled. What would have sounded like music on any other occasion, was an alarm clock presently. Ezio knew that when she was up, he was up, regardless of how late they went to bed the night before. Grumbling a response, he buried his face into the pillow and the result was her pulling it out from under him. Sun light blinded him and Ezio growled.

Rosa stopped her laughing long enough to see a dark look enter Ezio’s eyes and she tossed the pillow at his face. Too late, it seemed, as he wrapped his arms around her waist and she fell back into the bed with a soft thump. “Oh, is that how you want to play?” Ezio’s laughter filled the room at her weak attempts to squirm out from under him. Pressing his lips to her neck, she let out the squeak he so desired. “Say you’re sorry, mio caro.” Ezio pressed his lips against her once again, and her voice went up an octave.

“N-Never!” She said in between fits of laughter. 

“Is that so?” Ezio began his assault again. “Caro.”

“Fine, I-I’m,” Rosa was laughing and Ezio paused just long enough to rest his chin on her chest and watch her recover. The blush in her cheeks had turned to red, and there were tears in her eyes. She looked at him again, laughed once more, and took a deep breath. Calming herself, she jut her chin out. “What are you looking at?” There she was, the tough street leader he’d fallen in love with all those years ago. Rosa hummed, running her fingers through the tangles of his hair. “Hm?”

“Nothing,” Ezio breathed, finding that he hadn’t remembered holding his breath. “Just,” Gently, as if she would break, his fingers caressed her cheek and she leaned into his touch. The years had only added to her beauty as it had her fire, and that’s how he knew. He wasn’t sure when the change from friend to lover to more had occurred, all that he knew was that when he looked at her now, he wanted nothing more. She was his best friend, personal cheerleader and trainer, and pushed him to be better. How lucky was he? Ezio cleared his throat and kissed her gently on the lips, his body hovering over her. “Just thinking about how Claudia will kill me when she finds out I saw you.”

Rosa tangled her fingers behind his neck and pulled him down for one last kiss before they rolled out of bed. Shaking out her hair, she padded towards the window as Ezio pulled on his clothes. “She had to know if you wouldn’t come see me, then I would come see you.”

“Wise of her then,” Ezio tied up his hair and took Rosa’s hands, “to let your room be so close to mine. Don’t think she’d try to stop you.” 

“No one better try.” Rosa sang and Ezio reached for her lips once more, making her laugh. “There’s plently more for that later. People are going to wonder where you are, and the sun’s coming up. We don’t want Claudia finding out you got through her defenses to see me.”

Ezio winked, “Oh, I’m sure the whole house knows I came to see you last night.” With a kiss on her forehead, Ezio soared, like his heart, out the window, leaving Rosa and that white dress that hung in her room behind him.

Landing in a pile of hay, Ezio rolled, cleaned himself off, and was awarded a slow clap from the shadows. Turning over his shoulder, Ezio prepared for the twarting Claudia would give him, but found a more friendly face. “Machiavelli!” Ezio opened his arms to his friend and they embraced. “You made it!”

“Of course!” Machiavelli laughed, clapping him on the back and withdrawing to take a good look at him. “I thought only your leap of faith was looking good, but it looks like all of you is.”

“Thank you, amico.” Ezio laughed, “I’m not the only one! I like the...” Ezio pointed to the grays that adorned Machiavelli’s temples and ran like silver in his inky hair. Machiavelli swat his hand and pointed to him too. 

“I’m not the only one, it seems. Tell me, Ezio, you’re not truly planning on looking like,” he gestured at Ezio’s hay covered outfit, “all day?”

Ezio laughed, “Claudia would kill me.”

“And Rosa?”

“Who do you think put me in this condition?” 

“Come!” Machiavelli threw his arm over his friend. “I’m sure there’s something we can do about it, if we put our heads together.”

“We’re going to need more heads.” Ezio laughed, and followed his friend toward his room. He wasn’t sure what to make of the small smile on Machiavelli’s face, but they soon began talking of their adventures and he forgot about it until the turned the corner and a great yell went up. 

In an instance, heart pounding, his hidden blades sliced out of his forearms, their noise masked by the yell from the room. “Congratulations!”

Ezio was pulling into a hug, still stunned, until he heard, “My friend, so good to see you!”

“Leonardo?!” Blades returning to their bracers, Ezio held Leo and pulled him tighter. “Work let you leave?”

“Had no choice considering it’s such a speical day.” Leo hummed in his ear and Ezio looked around the room filled with familiar faces. His heart swelled. 

Giving Leo a final last squeeze, he admired the gray in his hair, trend his friends were sharing apparently. “Leo, my oldest friend! It fills me heart with such gladness to have you here with me.” 

“Nipote! Where else would we be?” Uncle Mario pulled him into a hug so tight that Ezio was lifted up from his feet.

“Don’t break him, Mario. He’s got a lot of heavy lifting to do from this point on.” Antonio clasped his arm and pulled him into a hug. “Though, knowing Rosa, she might be the one lifting you.”

“Ha ha.” Ezio rolled his eyes, but he knew it were true. “You all made it! Nothing could make this day any better.” Ugo was there as was La Volpe, and the other members of the Italian Brotherhood and Thieves Guilde. “But what as Teodora? Paola? My mother?” His eyes flickered to his Uncle Mario.

“Worry not, nipote. The women have their own jobs. We are left with ours.”

“Which is?” 

“Getting you ready!” A cheer went around the room.

“You’re not thinking of keeping those on? Are you?” Leonardo eyed his hidden blades, and Ezio flexed his wrist.

“Wouldn’t be an Assassin event without them.” La Volpe bowed low, and Ezio pulled him into a hug.

“It’s my wedding! No business today!” Holding out his forearms, Leo undid his bracers. La Volpe had his outfit, Ugo had the bath ready, Machiavelli and Leo argued with Antonio and Mario on how to style him. Ezio was groomed at least a dozen times over, poked and prodded, his hair moved this way and that.

“What do you think Rosa will think?” Leo clasped his hands together, all smiles.

“She won’t recognize him, don’t think I do.” Antonio teased.

“I dare so, Ezio, there’s a nobleman under that Assassin after all.” Machiavelli smirked, and though Ezio rolled his eyes, he knew his friends had done well. Admiring his new clothes and fresh style, Ezio turned this way and that. He didn’t recognize himself. He looked like a proper, more polished version of himself. He hoped Rosa would like it. 

Wondering of her, he hoped her morning was going smoothly. No poking and prodding for her. Only a relaxing day. This was her day, after all. Mario, as if reading his thoughts, leaned in. “Word is, the bride is ready. What say you, Ezio?” Antonio had returned with wine glasses. Ugo helped hand them out, and Leo gave him one. “To the man, the legend, the one and only, Ezio Auditore de Firenze!”

“May his life be happy, filled with love and peace!” Leo raised his glass.

“And to my friends! May I be blessed to stand with you always!” Ezio added.

“To all those who stand against us,” Ugo raised a glass. “Good luck!” 

“To the bride and groom! Long may they reign!” Machiavelli concluded, and the men cheered and drank. Not a moment had the wine touched his lips, Claudia stormed in. And by stormed, Ezio felt she might have invented the term. Gliding in like thunder clouds, Claudia welcomed all the men and began ushering them out.

“Come on, all of you! We’ll be late with all this celebrating. Remember, we have more afterwards.” Claudia pushed out her Uncle Mario.

“Come on, you heard the boss!” Uncle Mario gave Claudia a kiss on her forehead and the men ushered out, giving Ezio kisses, hugs, and words of encouragement on their way out. 

“Sister.” Ezio opened his arms, and Claudia dove into them.

And began adjusting his shirt and fixing his hair. “Let the men work on Ezio, Mother says, it’ll keep them out of our way, ha!” Happy with how he looked, she finally smiled and hugged her brother. “Oh Ezio! I’m so happy for you! Everything is perfect, I promise! And you look amazing. How are you feeling? Is there anything you need?”

“I need,” Ezio put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a small smile. Nerves bit into his stomach and made his veins feel like alive. “My sister to take a seat. I know everything is perfect, that’s why we asked you to do this.” Ask was a strong word. Claudia leapt at the mention at the wedding and forbid anyone else from spoiling it. A normal wedding, she said, no Assassin business! “Where is Mother?”

“On her way in. She wanted to speak to you.” Claudia looked over her shoulder and their mother walked in. 

Eyes teary, she took Ezio in and Ezio removed himself from Claudia to hug her and kiss her on both cheeks. “Oh, my Ezio. How handsome you look.” Mama Auditore mused and fixed his hair. “You’ve grown so much these years, from a boy to man faster than I could blink. Now look! You’re getting married! I know, if he was here, your Father would be very proud of who you are and what you’ve done. Both of us.”

“Mother.” Ezio blinked back tears and hung his head. 

Taking his chin and lifting it high, his Mother looked him in the eye and copied the stance. “None of that today, or ever again, my son. This will be the happiest day of your life, and then your new adventure starts. Love your wife as you loved her before she gained the title. Listen to her, protect her, guide her. After today, the pair of you are a team. Until death do you part. Do you understand that?” Ezio nodded. “Of course you do, now, shall we? We wouldn’t want to keep her waiting.” Ezio extended his arm and his mother took it. Claudia hurried to his other side, fixed his hair back, and took his other arm. 

Taking in a deep breath, Ezio felt steady in the arms of the strong women in his life, and step after shaky step, they took him out of the room and into the courtyard. The sun shone pleasantly, filling the courtyard to reveal a flower covered arch in the center. Rows of chairs were arranged neatly allowing on both sides, making an aisle. Claudia and his mother stopped him from proceeding farther, and Ezio took it in.

Flower petals lofted lazily in the spring breeze, how Claudia managed that he could never guess, and flowers adorned the seats of the aisle. Standing under the arch was La Volpe. Seated were his friends and family, looking over their shoulders to point, wave, and smile at him. Ezio felt like the sun itself, that he would explode with the light and love he was recieving. Tears filled his eyes and he laughed, “Claudia, thank you. Mother, thank you. It’s...perfect.”

Claudia squealed and dabbed at his eyes. “Don’t you start, Ezio, or I will too.” He laughed.

“Claudia, it’s his wedding, he can do what he wants.” His mother chastened her, but Claudia made a face and Ezio laughed as more tears rolled down his cheeks faster than she could dab them.

“Ready?” Claudia smiled, her voice barely a whisper. Taking their arms firmly, Ezio nodded and they walked him down the aisle. Passing by Uncle Mario who gave him a thumbs up, Ezio smiled. Ugo and the thieves gave him a salute which Ezio returned with the hand holding Claudia’s. Machiavelli and Antonio gave him nods, and Leonardo’s smile was so massive Ezio could only laugh and mimic the gesture.

Once placed just so under the arch, and his mother giving him a kiss on the cheek, Claudia helped their mother to the seat in the front. Ezio rolled his shoulders and shifted foot to foot thinking all the while that the doors held Rosa just on the other side and how he wanted to look like her prince when she walked through them. La Volpe leaned in, fixing Ezio’s hair. “Don’t be nervous. Just remember to soak it in. It goes by in the blink of an eye.” Ezio nodded, feeling better. 

Music started, and the doors he’d been eyeing opened. Everyone rose and turned. An excited murmur rang through the crowd, but all that faded away at the sight of Rosa, his Rosa, dressed like an angel. His knees buckled and Ezio was sure he would’ve fallen had La Volpe not professionally placed himself by his side and held him fast. No one saw. No one ever saw La Volpe’s work. Pulling himself up, Ezio found himself holding his breath again as Rosa’s eyes met his and a large smile broke like the sun emerging from behind the clouds. 

Ezio thought he was the sun, but he was mistaken. Rosa was the sun, powerful and bright, commanding the eye of all, blinding him with her brillance. Her faze transfixed on his, and Ezio felt the tears running down his cheeks again but he didn’t brush him off. Instead, his grin stretched across his face and he felt a new energy replace the nerves. An excitement! He was ready! 

Hurry up and walk down the aisle, so I can be your husband, he wanted to yell, but he controlled himself. Antonio walked her down the aisle. “Who gives this woman away?” La Volpe asked and Antonio stood proudly.

“Her Mentor.”

La Volpe nodded, and Antonio kissed her hand before placing it in Ezio’s outstretched one. At her touch, Ezio felt anchored. Looking into her eyes, the rest of the crowd faded away, and they stared at one another.

“You look...” Ezio was at a loss of words.

Her hand hovered over his face and Ezio kissed her palm. Fixing his hair, she cupped his face and then slid her hand down his arm to hold his hands. “Perfecto, as usual, Signor Auditore.” Rosa beamed, and La Volpe cleared his throat.

Oh yea, they were sort of in the middle of something. Helping her to the shade under the floral arch, a breeze shfited the petals again, and Ezio just stared. If he had to go through all he had to get back here to her, he’d do it again in a heartbeat. He’d do it every day if it meant getting back to her. Looking into her eyes, he knew she was thinking the same.

La Volpe was right, the wedding was a blur. He remembered he forgot his cue, being lost in Rosa’s eyes, and made the crowd laugh. Uncle Mario and one of Rosa’s friends handed them the rings. Once placed on her finger, Ezio gave it a kiss. A tradition he would do for the rest of his life. 

“Now, by the power vested in me, I pronounce thee, husband and wife!” A cheer went up, and Ezio heard the part he’d been waiting for. “Ezio! You may now kiss the bride!” Throwing a fist into the air and pulling it down quickly, Ezio whirled Rosa around and dipped her low, kissing her as passionately as he had this morning, which suddenly felt so very far away, and righted her as a deafening roar sounded. “Now! Let’s party!”

By the end of the night, Ezio must have danced with everyone twice! His shoes were most likely ripped apart! The thieves performed a dance of acrobatics, his mother got a dance, of course, and he danced with his wife, god he loved saying that, whenever someone else hadn’t stolen her. Leo was standing awkwardly to the side, enjoying himself from afar, when Ezio strode up to him.

“Is everything alright, Leonardo?” Ezio asked, and offered him a glass which Leo refused. “A brave man, you can dance without?”

“I uh, I’ve never...” They both looked at the dancefloor and Ezio shook his head.

“Not on my wedding day.” Ezio bowed low and offered his hand. “It would be my honor, Signor de Vinci.”

“Ezio, are you sure? Surely you’d rather dance with your wife.” Leo tried, but there was an excited light in his eyes.

“She knew what she was getting into, and she would do the same.” Ezio twitched his hand, and Leo took it. Leading him onto the dancefloor, the music picked up and Ezio lead. Leo was given many a twirl and soon the others joined. By the end of the night, Rosa was back in his arms, her head on his chest, his head on hers. Taking a deep breath, taking in her scent, Ezio closed his eyes. This is how the rest of his life would be. His wife at his side and his friends surrounding him. And so it was.

[pangeanews]

Addio ad Annalisa Cima, la musa di Montale che stava antipatica a troppi. Il “Diario postumo” fu uno tsunami. Lei si diceva così: “Vivo la contraddizione d’essere angelo ed Erinni”

Nata nel 1941, a Milano, il 20 di gennaio, Annalisa Cima fu per alcuni musa inesorabile per altri donna detestabile. Ne era consapevole anche lei, per altro. In una fosforica Autopresentazione poetica si declinò così: “Vivo la contraddizione d’essere angelo ed Erinni…/ Amo Driadi e Silvani, non i poeti nani/ e le loro orme che chiamano versi./ Odio chierici e conversi, predatori e untuosi lodatori”. Visse da artista, con la spavalda eleganza, appunto, delle muse del primo Novecento, con l’attitudine austera e sagace delle muse di sempre. Sapeva ammaliare, dicono. Akira Kurosawa “presentò una sua mostra di disegni a Tokyo”, frequentò Manzù e Marini, Max Ernst e Picasso, “nel 1967 conosce Murilo Mendes, poeta e critico brasiliano, il musicista Gian Francesco Malipiero, Marianne Moore, Jorge Guillén, Aldo Palazzeschi, Giuseppe Ungaretti, Ezra Pound”. Il sodalizio con Vanni Scheiwiller si concretizza nella elaborazione di diversi “volumetti della collana ‘Occhio magico’”. Fu lui, Vanni – che vado citando – a redigere la biografia sommaria della Cima e a ricordarne l’incontro fatale (ordito dall’editore, per altro): “Nel 1968 incontrò Eugenio Montale ed ebbe inizio una grande amicizia basata su una profonda stima reciproca”. Di quella amicizia lunare – lei 27 anni, lui 72 – è esito Diario postumo, raccolta di poesie sparse (dal 1969 in poi), una specie di controcanto poetico, di canto obliquo come bluff ai critici, affidate – con la promessa d’essere opera postuma, dunque posteriore al poeta, cioè altro più che canto ultimo – alla Cima. Mondadori stampa il tutto nel 1996 e si scatena lo tsunami: davvero è Montale? Ma quanto Montale c’è lì dentro: un grammo, un brufolo, una sberla? I critici si sono messi, nonostante i dati in dote, a misurare Montale, filone aureo della poesia italica, in carati. Per alcuni, il Diario postumo è puro ottone, è fasullo, lo dice anche Wikipedia, l’enciclopedia dei tiepidi (“Diario postumo è, secondo alcuni, l’ottava e ultima raccolta di poesie di Eugenio Montale”; corsivo mio). In ogni caso, Annalisa Cima, “ultima musa di Montale” (così la nota Ansa) è morta, a Lugano, a 78 anni. Anche gli scarsi indizi che ho allineato fornirebbero il destro per una specie di romanzo. Invece, il ‘coccodrillo’ del ‘Corrierone’, per dire, firmato da Paolo Di Stefano, torna sul tema, negando, sostanzialmente, l’autenticità del Diario (si capisce fin dal sottotitolo: “avevano fatto discutere le liriche che la donna sosteneva fossero state composte per lei”), accennando che “nel 2014, il dibattito fu riacceso da nuove ricerche filologiche (di Federico Condello, Alberto Casadei, Paola Italia e altri) che confermavano la tesi di Isella: si tratta di un «falso in toto o in gran parte, frutto di collage o di registrazioni audio». Annalisa Cima ha assistito pressoché in silenzio al ritorno di fiamma dell’affaire attributivo”. A me resta da ricordare la lunga dichiarazione di Maria Corti (su “la Repubblica”, 4 settembre 1997, titolo: Montale dopo il parapiglia), consapevole del lavoro ultimo di Montale (“Mi rivelò allora che stava scrivendo una raccolta di poesie che non avrebbe mai consegnato al Fondo, sia perché sarebbe uscita postuma e per di più in ondate successive a distanza di anni, sia perché esecutrice testamentaria sarebbe stata la giovane amica Annalisa Cima, a cui la raccolta era dedicata”), pure per testimonianza diretta (“alla mia presenza Montale consegnò alla Cima un notevole gruppo di fogli manoscritti”). In questa vicenda, Cesare Cavalleri – che conosceva bene sia la Cima che Montale – fu tra chi lottò per avvalorare l’autenticità del Diario postumo. Senza fanfare da fanatico, per carità, riconoscendo che “il meglio di Montale è prima, altrove, anche se per la conoscenza di un poeta grandissimo come lui è necessario leggere tutto” (“Studi Cattolici”, n. 424, giugno 1996), studiando la vicenda fin dagli esordi, optando, all’epoca, per questa ipotesi: “L’autorevole dubbio di Isella è che la Cima avrebbe colto a volo certe frasi, certe battute, di Montale, provvedendo poi lei a dar loro forma ‘poetica’. Può darsi. Ma non può darsi per tutte le poesie ‘postume’” (su “Avvenire”, 26 luglio 1997). In questo caso, ribatto la sua prefazione al libro di Annalisa Cima, Le occasioni del “Diario postumo”. Tredici anni di amicizia con Eugenio Montale (Ares, 2012), libro che per altro, piuttosto, testimonia il brio narrativo della fatidica musa. Alcuni ricordi, risolti in forma di sketch, sono cammei mirabili, da romanzo, come questo: “Qualche mese dopo, quando cominciammo a frequentarci, Montale volle sapere tutto del mio incontro con Marianne Moore a New York. Nella sua casa al Village, viveva attorniata da animali in miniatura, soprammobili quasi animati che facevano parte del suo mondo poetico. La prima volta che andai a trovarla, al 35 West 9th St., trovai la porta dell’appartamento socchiusa: lo era per lasciar passare i cavi della televisione. Ogni giorno, infatti, Marianne Moore leggeva, in diretta, poesie e racconti per ragazzi. La poetessa, occhi azzurri, testa circondata da un’aureola bianca, un po’ trasognata e un po’ realista (come quando diede uno schiaffo sulla mano del fotografo Ugo Mulas che aveva osato spostare uno dei suoi animaletti di vetro), non provava alcun timore a vivere con la porta aperta, in una zona della città allora abbastanza a rischio. Diceva: «Ho i miei angeli neri per custodirmi», e infatti, di lì a poco, chiamò due ragazze che l’accudivano, in veste di governante l’una, e di segretaria l’altra. Due sudamericane scure come l’ebano e alte come palme”. Anche questo, a onor dei fatti, bisognava dire, della Cima, del suo talento per il cammeo letterario. Ma, si sa, le muse, figure ineffabili, stanno sulle scatole a troppi, lieti di metterle sotto i tacchi anche post mortem. (d.b.)

*

«Ho vissuto e vivo in un mondo elitario, nel quale non sono riusciti ad avvilirmi né calunnie né falsità, abituata sempre a considerare solo le persone speciali alle quali ho dato e do affetto e amicizia. Tutti gli altri, il sottobosco e tutti quei discorsi tendenziosi, non mi toccano, ma non perché sia stoica, solo perché non m’interessano. Ho una buona considerazione di me stessa e quindi tutto ciò che infanga e corrompe lo lascio lontano dal mio vivere». Così Annalisa Cima parlava di sé a Montale, nel 1979, su richiesta del poeta. Bisogna partire da questa nativa sprezzatura per capire come mai il legame di amicizia fra un sommo poeta di 72 anni e una poetessa, pittrice e musicista di 27, sia durato per tredici anni, e con un Nobel di mezzo. Montale aveva visto in Annalisa l’alter ego che avrebbe voluto essere, scoprendo in sé un sentimento di paternità e, addirittura, di maternità poetica, impensabile anche per i più fedeli ammiratori del poeta che «spesso», tra il 1920 e il 1927, aveva incontrato «il male di vivere». Annalisa Cima che, dopo averla letta, aveva pregato Montale di non pubblicare sul Corriere, nel 1969, la lusinghiera prefazione al suo primo libro di versi («Lo pregai di lasciarmi camminare sulle mie gambe») era, per il poeta, la persona giusta per accogliere quel nuovo sentimento di paternità/maternità, e alla quale affidare, anche in sede testamentaria, la propria fama attraverso la cura dell’Opera omnia.

*

Quanto al Montale «privato», bastano poche citazioni. Montale, 1968: «Non appartengo ai paradisi artificiali di Palazzeschi, né agli inferni lussuriosi di Ungaretti; sono un uomo che ha vissuto al cinque per cento. Appartengo al limbo dei poeti asessuati e guardo al resto del mondo con paura». Questa autodefinizione fa giustizia definitiva delle illazioni (becere) non solo sul legame Montale/Cima, ma anche sui rapporti del poeta con le altre sue ispiratrici, Volpe compresa. Di Annalisa Cima è questa definizione, esistenziale e letteraria, monito per i critici futuri: «Uomo del non-possesso, della fantasia resa realtà, è corso sino alla fine verso immagini che materializzava o, meglio, verso persone che smaterializzava». Dalle pagine di Annalisa Cima emerge un Montale affettuoso e scherzoso, sensibile all’amicizia al punto da condividere quell’ipotesi stravagante di «comune» di artisti che avrebbero lavorato e vissuto insieme. E scopriamo, sotto la maschera burbera del poeta che ci è stata tramandata, un uomo che si diverte a organizzare burle agli amici, Gianfranco Contini compreso, senza rinunciare a permali perfino verso Vanni Scheiwiller, fedelissimo amico e complice, che lo andava a trovare quasi quotidianamente. Certamente la «burla» più riuscita è però quella verso i critici e i lettori futuri, che sta appunto all’origine del Diario postumo. Annalisa Cima ne accenna in breve, ma non si può dimenticare che il Diario postumo è stato oggetto della polemica più aspra e pretestuosa dell’ultimo scorcio del Novecento.

*

Che l’autenticità del Diario sia stata messa in dubbio da Dante Isella (1922-2007) è ormai solo il ricordo del più clamoroso abbaglio da cui un critico montaliano sia stato accecato, e spiace che, nella successiva campagna mediatica, si sia distinto anche Giovanni Raboni (1932-2004), amico e poeta da me stimato a diversissimo titolo. Sull’autenticità del Diario postumo non può nutrire dubbi chi abbia un minimo di raziocinio. Ci sono le testimonianze di Maria Corti, di Giuseppe Savoca (che ha perfino pubblicato Le concordanze del Diario postumo), di Rosanna Bettarini, Guido Bezzola, Piero Bigongiari, Marco Forti, Emerico Giachery, Oreste Macrì, Alessandro Parronchi, Silvio Ramat, Andrea Zanzotto, per non parlare della mostra degli autografi allestita a Lugano dal 24 al 26 ottobre 1997. Questo nuovo libro, da cui ricevono luce molte poesie del Diario postumo, non si iscrive come ulteriore e ormai innecessario tassello in quell’antica polemica, bensì va letto come utile commento e, ancor più, come «Occasione» (la parola è inevitabile) per rileggere a mente riposata le poesie dell’ultimo Montale. Certo, ci sono interessanti spunti biografici e metatestuali: per esempio, la completa identità della misteriosa Adelheit, citata da Montale nel Diario del ’71 e del ’72, e nel Quaderno di quattro anni, e che le scarne note di Annalisa Cima al Diario postumo (1996) lasciavano nel mistero. Ci sono i tic e le consuetudini del Montale quotidiano, e la straordinaria complicità dell’amicizia con Annalisa: ma, quel che più conta, è la possibilità di verificare lo stacco letterario che metabolizza «l’occasione» in poesia. L’autocommento affidato da Montale ad Annalisa Cima è un caposaldo inamovibile per i critici presenti e futuri: «I primi tre libri [Ossi di seppia, Le occasioni, La bufera] sono scritti in frac, gli altri in pigiama, o diciamo in abito da passeggio. Forse mi sono reso conto che non potevo continuare a inneggiare a Clizia, alla Volpe, a Iride, che del resto non esistono più nella mia vita. Quando scrivevo i primi libri non sapevo che avrei raggiunto gli ottant’anni. Passati gli anni, guardandovi dentro ho scoperto che si poteva fare altro, l’opposto anche». Da qui il tono colloquiale, aforistico, ironico e «occasionale» da Satura in poi. Ma c’è di più. Montale prosegue: «Poi c’è un fatto di orecchio, di orecchio musicale (i critici non ne tengono abbastanza conto): ho voluto suonare il pianoforte in un’altra maniera, più discreta, più silenziosa». L’orecchio assoluto di Montale gli consente una spontaneità metrica tanto più stupefacente quanto più sommessa. Prendiamo, per esempio, la seconda strofa di Mattinata:

Ad ogni apparizione fai rifiorire vegetazioni nuove. Non hai un cliché: emergi singolare. È il segno che travalica gli umani. A noi, in questo anfiteatro di brutture, non resta che ricordo e dulia qual duplice ristoro.

Verso per verso abbiamo: un settenario / un quinario e un settenario / un quinario / un altro quinario (emergi singolare) / seguito in enjambement da un intero endecasillabo (È il segno / che travalica gli umani) / ancora due quinari / e tre settenari in chiusura. L’apparente «semplicità» del dettato è in realtà un’abilissima e spontanea elaborazione dell’endecasillabo, il metronomo della poesia italiana, nelle sue due componenti (quinari e settenari). È questa l’«altra maniera» di suonare il pianoforte dell’ultimo Montale.

*

A proposito di pianoforti, è inevitabile il confronto tra Tentava la vostra mano la tastiera degli Ossi (Opera in versi, p. 42) e Il ritratto, con la differenza che là la giovane Paola Nicoli era colta in un attimo di smarrimento, mentre qui Annalisa Cima è «pronta a spiccare il volo». Ma, per tornare al metabolismo fantastico di Montale («immagini che materializzava, persone che smaterializzava»), esemplare è Il caffetano bianco, in cui la figura della giovane poetessa sulla spiaggia di Forte dei Marmi è meno delineata dalla testimonianza visiva del poeta, che non dalla descrizione che gliene fece Carmelo Bene. Analogamente, la volpe azzurra indossata da Annalisa Cima diventa, per misteriose ragioni di metrica, «muflone blu cobalto» (settenario) nella dedica 20 gennaio o 30 anni.

Un cenno, sia pure in sede impropria come questa, è tuttavia doveroso per la poesia di Annalisa Cima, la cui opera finora pubblicata è racchiusa in Di canto in canto (Longo, Ravenna 2007), con prefazione di Paolo Cherchi. Per la qualità, è sufficiente leggere la poesia tradotta in castigliano da Jorge Guillén (p. 67); ma quel che preme sottolineare è la diversità di tono e contenuti rispetto alla poesia anche dell’ultimo Montale: astratta e «filosofica» la poesia di Cima, gnomica e di cronaca quella di Montale. Del resto, è Annalisa Cima a dichiarare allo stesso Montale che i suoi poeti preferiti sono Ungaretti e Zanzotto.

Resta da sottolineare la centralità della poesia Il clou nel Diario postumo. Annalisa Cima ne riconduce il significato alla «conversione» di Montale da Spinoza a Leibniz, ma Oreste Macrì è andato oltre, in due lettere che ho pubblicato nella Revue des Études italiens (n. 3-4, 1998). In data 5 agosto 1997, Macrì mi aveva scritto: «L’approssimarsi di Montale al cattolicesimo fu lungo e graduale; per molti anni di “non praticante”. La Mosca era cattolica ebrea, affine alla Brandeis, motivo per il quale Montale rinunziò all’invito di recarsi in America. La poesia Il clou del Diario postumo termina: “E fu così che il tuo parlare / timoroso e ardente, mi rese / in breve da ateo credente”. La resistenza “gnostica” fu lunga e duratura; la conversione si operò a mio parere nella seconda dimora in via Bigli a Milano. Rammento che ivi andò a trovarlo il Fabiani, che ne scrisse su Oggi, se non ricordo male. Salito al piano dell’appartamento del poeta trovò la porta socchiusa e scorse Montale inginocchiato davanti alla televisione che ascoltava la Messa». E ancora, il 29 agosto 1997: «Mi confermo nell’idea che l’ultima sua donna, Annalisa Cima, celebrata nel Diario postumo, costituisce per lui la liberatrice e salvatrice. Nella poesia Il clou: “Ratio ultima rerum… id est deus. E fu così che il tuo parlare / timoroso e ardente, mi rese / in breve da ateo credente”. E nella poesia di p. 67 la chiama “voce di salvazione”, vocabolo specificamente spirituale cristiano». Lasciamo impregiudicata, nel segreto delle coscienze, l’ipotesi macriana (che tuttavia condivido), e concludiamo con Montale che, nella poesia di risposta al rimprovero di Annalisa per aver accettato il Nobel, scrisse: «Il tempo degli eventi / è diverso dal nostro».

Cesare Cavalleri

*In copertina: Eugenio Montale e Annalisa Cima. Si conobbero nel 1968

L'articolo Addio ad Annalisa Cima, la musa di Montale che stava antipatica a troppi. Il “Diario postumo” fu uno tsunami. Lei si diceva così: “Vivo la contraddizione d’essere angelo ed Erinni” proviene da Pangea.

from pangea.news https://ift.tt/2Ln2aJ4

[lives-in-a-harpsichord]

I have been separated from my scanner until further notice but look

Assassins

[paoloxl]

L’accanimento giudiziario contro Nunzio D’Erme, recentemente condannato in primo grado a tre anni e dieci mesi di reclusione, è indicativo di un clima che attraversa il paese e che influenza pesantemente anche gli ambienti giudiziari. Chiunque svolga un’attività sociale in difesa dei diritti e contro le ingiustizie è destinato ad incorrere in sanzioni amministrative e penali che in questi anni si sono andate sempre più inasprendo.

Anche il Decreto Salvini si muove nella stessa direzione, reintroducendo il reato di blocco stradale, aumentando le pene per le occupazioni ed allargando l’uso dei DASPO, introdotti dal precedente ministro degli interni Minniti. Ma in generale, sono anni che si assiste ad una crescente aggressione alla libertà di esprimere il dissenso ed organizzare la protesta sociale e sindacale, e le pene piovute addosso agli attivisti sono diventate sempre più pesanti.

Mentre le condizioni sociali nel paese non accennano a migliorare, la repressione nei confronti di chi anima le lotte diventa un’azione preventiva tesa a scoraggiare la diffusione massiccia di movimenti di protesta. E Nunzio rischia di pagare, con la sua ostinata coerenza a continuare a battersi contro ingiustizie e fascisti, la “colpa” di non essersi mai tirato indietro ed essere rimasto sempre in prima fila. Colpiscono Nunzio, insomma, anche per provare ad intimidire tanti altri.

Continuare a battersi con coraggio e determinazione nell’era dei decreti Minniti/Salvini comporta non solo una comprensione della gravità dei provvedimenti entrati in vigore ma anche una nuova capacità di saper costruire reti di resistenza e di difesa collettiva. Io sto con Nunzio e continuo a lottare.

Assemblea

Mercoledi  5 dicembre ore 18

Cinema Palazzo   – Piazza dei Sanniti, 9 – Roma

Per aderire all’appello: info@osservatoriorepressione.info

#IoStoConNunzio #DirittoDiResistenza #LibertàDiMovimento

prime adesioni:

Haidi Gaggio Giuliani, Valerio Mastandrea, Zerocalcare, Eleonora Forenza, Amedeo Ciaccheri,  Aboubakar Soumahoro, Italo Di Sabato, Guido Lutrario,  Giovanni Russo Spena, Marco Lucentini, Nicoletta Dosio, Gianluca Peciola, Pierpaolo Leonardi, Viola Carofalo, Giorgio Cremaschi, Giuliano Santoro, Vincenzo Miliucci, Andrea Fumagalli, Claudio Marotta, Susi Fantino, Caterina Calia, Francesco Romeo, Roberto Lamacchia, Cesare Antetomaso, Fabio Grimaldi, Rita Martufi, Luciano Vasapollo, Patrizia Sentinelli,  Anubi D’Avossa Lussurgiu, Giso Amendola, Francesco Raparelli, Alberto De Nicola,Emanuele De Luca, Marco Bersani,Stefania Zuccari, Claudio Dionesalvi,Angela Mauro, Fabio Palmieri,Gianfranco Tallarico,��Domenico Niglio, Gianluca Schiavon, Claudio Goffi, Sergio Cararo, Federico Mariani, Riccardo Germani, Gualtiero Alunni, Daniela Cortese, Federica Stelli, Sonia Spila, Manolo Luppichini, Ruggero D’Alessandro, Alberto Di Vincenzo, Armando Tolu, Daniela Torro, Silvia Ianni, Pasquale Vilardo, Valter Lorenzi, Maria Angela Zerbinati, Donato Bisceglia,  Giuseppe Pelli, Paolo De Marco, Gloria Salvatori, Rita Chiavoni, Massimo Quinzi, Fabiana Murgia,  Giuseppe Carroccia, Rino Tarallo, Stefano Pennacchietti, Antonio Perilli, Fabrizio Soddu, Toni Germani, Irene Galuppo, Alessandra Benvenuti, Elisa Della Libera, Alessandra Landini, Stefano Zuppello, Paola Palmieri, Claudio Socci, Luisa Barba, Angelo Fascetti, Alfonso Perrotta, Giovanni Coretti, Riccardo Cretella, Giammaria Volpe, Annarita Di Credico, Chiara Santone, Laura Morettini, Carlo Cerciello, Nadia Daddi, Nico Campanelli, Fabrizio Di Bona, Roberto Evangelista, Massimo Di Marcello, Renato di Caccamo, Valerio Porcelli, Rosa Mordenti, Riadh Zaghdane, Roberto Cortese, Daniela Pitti, Candida De Carolis, Valeria Farina, Caterina Virtù, Sabrina Lignini, Stefano Iguana, Angelo Di Naro, Irene Martinengo, Raoudha Boughanmi, Giorgia Forgetta, Carmen Armaroli, Patricia Pernett, Marco Petti, Fabiola Bravi, Carla Dovini, Lionella Riccio, Claudio Desideri, Fabio Galati, Franco Cancelli, Sandra Berardi, Pasquale Abatangelo, Luigia De Biasi, Fabio Russo, Enrico Capone, Antonio Adornato, Andrea De Rossi, Sergio Scorsa, Stefano Quartero, Sergio Falcone, Francesca Trasatti, Joseph Alan Valia, Flavia Del Fattore, Agostino Zelli,  Virginia Mascetta, Chiara Franceschini, Ilaria Diaco, Gaia Casagrande, Enrico Capozza, Veniero Rossi, Barbara Cacchione, Serena Zampardi,  Ezio Villani, Fabrizio Picchetti, Massimo Amore, Selmi Simone, Marco D’Agostini, Simona Ammerata, Giorgio A. Pisano, Silvia Raponi

Militant A (Assalti Frontali), Banda Bassotti,  Radici nel Cemento, Wu Ming – scrittori, AttriceContro, Fleurs du Mal, Collettivo Teatrale Macchia Rossa

Associazione Nazionale Giuristi Democratici, Unione Sindacale di Base, Csoa Corto Circuito, Esc Atelier autogestito, LOA Acrobax Project, Collettivo di Casetta Rossa, Csoa La Strada, Cpoa Rialzo Cosenza, Laboratorio Zero81 Napoli, Csoa ex Opg – Je sò Pazzo Napoli, Radio Onda Rossa, ACAD Associazione Contro gli Abusi in Divisa, Anpi sez. “Nido di Vespe” Quadraro/Cinecittà Roma, A.N.P.I. sez. “Walter Rossi – Università”, Potere al Popolo, redazione Contropiano, redazione di Comune, Laboratorio Comunista “Casamatta”, Associazione Culturale La Lotta Continua, Osservatorio sul fascismo Roma, Palestra Popolare “San Lorenzo” Roma, Comitato con la Palestina nel Cuore, I compagni di Walter, Red-lab Quarticciolo,  All Reds Rugby Roma,  Rete dei Comunisti, Collettivo Militant, Comitato Madri per Roma Città Aperta, Palestra popolare Quarticciolo, , Casa del Popolo Campobasso, Noi Restiamo,  Circolo Prc Longo Cinecittà Quadraro, ASD Boxe Popolare Cosenza, Associazione Yairaiha Onlus, Casa editrice DeriveApprodi, Carovana Antifascista Roma, Asia-Usb Bologna, Usb Bologna, Usb Emilia-Romagna, Scuola popolare “Soumaila Sacko”, Associazione Vivere il Quartaccio,  Casa del Popolo “Pio La Torre”  Acilia, PrendoCasa Cosenza, Comitato Soccavo (Napoli), Lido Pola Napoli, Confederazione Regionale USB Campania