works

narrative, plays, scripts, essays, reviews...

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Hidden Little Treasure
essay

Infinitely Near
script

Journey in the City of Masks
short story

Pickford: The Woman Who Made Hollywood
review

Voiceless Lilies
book

Se sapessi
poem

Novellistica in Nuce
review

The Adolescent
book

Bittersweet Spaghetti
script

Losing Touch with the Devine
review

Il mio umore
poem

The Nature of Commedia dell'arte Improvisation
essay

What's Wrong?
script

The Brain
poem

Intervalli chiaroscuri
poem

excerpts from Voiceless Lilies
(text in Italian and English)
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n. 1 I fenomeni scientifici visti attraverso gli occhi di un innamorato.
Scientific phenomena seen through the eyes of a person in love.

n. 3 Quando si perde tutto ma c'è sempre speranza.
When everything is lost but there is still hope left.

n. 5 Quando l'amore degli altri si può misurare col metro.
When you can measure someone's love with a ruler.

n. 6 L'importanza della tolleranza nella comune convivenza.
The importance of tollerance in communal life.

n. 9 Come un consapevole sforzo può aiutare a farcela.
How a conscious effort can help one to make it.

n. 11 L'importanza della partenza in un lavoro.
The importance of a good start in a job.

n. 13 Amicizia significa parlare anche di cani.
Being friends can mean talking also about dogs.

n. 33 Quando si ha la testa troppo sui libri.
When one keeps his nose too much in books.

n. 35 Quando un uomo ha gli occhi stanchi.
When a man has tired eyes.

n. 38 Una nuova applicazione della legge di Newton.
A new application of Newton's law.

n. 48 Quando una bambina ha un talento naturale.
When a little girl has a natural talent.

n. 52 Quando si vuole tutto e subito.
When one wants it all and now.

n. 53 Quando le cose si guardano dall'angolazione giusta.
When things are seen from the right angle.

n. 55 Quando si esagerano i propri bisogni e invece può bastare così poco.
When one exaggerates his needs and a small thing can do instead.

n. 57 Quando non si è andati a scuola abbastanza.
When one hasn't gone to school to a sufficient point(enough).

n. 58 Quando, ci piaccia o no, è vero il contrario.
When, whether we like it or not, the contrary is true.

n. 59 Riguardo al ruolo che ci viene dato nella vita.
In regards to the role given us in life.

n. 28 Quando uno abita in una casa troppo appartati.
When one lives in a place(home) too secluded (withdrawn).

n. 85 Quando i ruoli si invertono e i bambini diventano maestri.
When the roles are inverted and a child becomes the master.

n. 93 Le equazioni più difficili.
The most difficult equations.

n. 107 Quando una sola cosa basta a farci felici.
When one single thing is enough (able) to make us happy.

n. 29 Quando l'amore è solo un pretesto.
When love is only a pretence.

n. 25 Quando le mamme sono incapaci di guardare oltre.
When mothers are incapable to look beyond.

n. 111 Quando si sceglie di lavorare in proprio.
When one chooses to be self employed.

n. 110 Un'improvvisa sensazione dell'essere.
A sudden feeling of the self.

nn. 132, 134 Alla ricerca del significato estremo della vita.
In search of the extreme meaning of life.

n. 135 Quando pagare il pedaggio significa assumersi delle responsabilità e dare una mano.
When paying toll means to take re-sponsibilities and give a hand.

n. 139 Quando gli uomini si ostinano a fare scelte balorde.
When men persevere(insist) in making dumb(stupid) choice.

n. 140 Continuando a valutare i pro e i contro.
Continuing to consider the pros and the cons.

n. 141 Quando a rafforzare la nostra fede concorrono varie cose.
When several things come to fortify our faith.

n. 144 Quando manca proprio l'aiuto.
When there isn't any help at all.

n. 147 Alla scoperta della nostra vera natura.
In search of our real nature.

n. 177 Quando come San Tommaso si vuole che la realtà sia tangibile, si possa toccare.
When, as Tomas, one wants reality to be tangible, one wants to feel it.

n. 153 Quando la fiducia ha un'importanza pari a quella di una mano o di un piede.
When trust is important as is a hand or a foot.

n. 173 Quando la verità è nascosta abilmente in un gioco.
(Il sapore è dato dal codice della legge.)
When the truth is cleverly hidden in a game.
(The flavour is given by the code of the law.)

Novellistica in nuce: Abbozzi, esempi, schizzi, "smorfie" fra Ottocento e Novecento.
Roberto Salsano. Napoli: Liguori, 1996 (Strumenti). Pp. VI, 75.
(review)
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La storia della letteratura è fatta di figure statuarie, di menti grandiose, originali, estrose e irrompenti, che hanno segnato i costumi, le tradizioni, la cultura di interi popoli. Questi stessi popoli dei loro 'eroi' sagomano nell'immortale pietra le fattezze e li pongono alle porte della città per vantarsene, per affermare il proprio orgoglio, per proclamare la propria grandezza. L'ombra di questi simulacri segna fondamentali punti di arrivo lungo l'antichissima strada della nascita, della formazione e dello sviluppo della società degli uomini. Eppure, lungo la via, vi sono altri riferimenti, delle tappe, per così dire, intermedie, delle figure minori, meno appariscenti, ma non per questo meno importanti. Anche questi sono 'ritagliati nella pietra', pietre più piccole ma pietre miliari, che segnano l'avanzamento dell'uomo lungo la strada della ricerca spirituale e intellettuale, e a volte sono un preannuncio, un anticipo di una sosta più lunga, di un caposaldo. E' in questa luce, o meglio nuce, e approccio che Roberto Salsano ha scritto Novellistica in nuce, un testo critico su abbozzi, esempi, schizzi, "smorfie" fra Ottocento e Novecento. In questo volumetto egli analizza appunto una serie di racconti e raccontini che rappresentano i germi -- da cui l'espressione "raccontini in nuce" (2) -- di forme, principi e stili poi divenuti capisaldi della letteratura novecentesca, quanto meno di buona parte di essa. Salsano ha scritto diverse opere critiche sulla letteratura classica -- sull'arte e lo stile alfieriani, su Leopardi, su Manzoni, su Verga, sull'estetica del romanzo in genere -- e ora in quest'opera ha concentrato la sua attenzione sullo scrittore ottocentesco Alberto Cantoni, considerato l'anticipatore di quello stile distaccato e paradossalmente umoristico tipico delle opere pirandelliane, su Roberto Bracco autore più che altro teatrale a cavallo dei due secoli e sul Pirandello stesso a proposito degli incunaboli novellistici -- ovvero novelle 'in fasce' -- presenti nell'opera saggistica di Pirandello, L'umorismo. Novellistica in nuce comincia col trattare degli abbozzi novellistici e della critica letteraria contenute nel Demonio dello stile di Alberto Cantoni. L'autore è molto accurato nell'analisi dei lavori, quando si tratta della loro collocazione storica, del loro contesto storiografico e geografico, delle tendenze letterarie del tempo e delle varie scuole di pensiero e di stile. Nel caso del Demonio dello stile egli sottolinea come il Cantoni si sia sottratto "alle maglie strette di uno stile affidato al modo di dire"(3) consueto, per scrivere una novella sui generis, sciolta dalle redini d'una retorica sclerotizzata. Salsano molto abilmente dimostra e difende l'originalità della composizione del Cantoni. Ciò che rende personale, e quindi maggiormente apprezzata, l'opera di un artista è la peculiarità del suo modo di essere e di sentire; Cantoni, che è appunto considerato un precursore di Pirandello, ha saputo intelligentemente superare posizioni monolitiche e darsi a un'intensa visione obiettiva della realtà, pur affermando la sua individuale capacità di scrivere in sintonia con le proprie qualità soggettive. In altre parole egli ha saputo collegarsi al mondo concreto oltrepassando gli schemi veristi per aprire la via a una rappresentazione ironica, caricaturale, grottesca, ma pur sempre profondamente complessa della realtà. I personaggi degli abbozzi del Cantoni -- per esempio, "una moglie che alterna la scena dell'amore a cangianti stati d'animo vivi nel profondo"(14) -- segnano un presentimento pirandelliano, il capovolgimento delle situazioni, le mille implicazioni, la discontinuità della psicologia umana. Quelle del Salsano sono delle vere scoperte, o riscoperte, letterarie che collocano nella giusta prospettiva un'importante opera del Cantoni quale è il Demonio dello stile. Con il termine "schizzi" ci si riferisce alle brevi novelle, spesso preludio di temi sviluppati più massivamente in un secondo tempo. Salsano nell'esaminarli è assai penetrante nel rilevarne a nostro beneficio ogni armonico superiore, per dirla in termini musicali. Ne evidenzia ogni dissonanza, inflessione, allusioni classiche e colori e timbri tipicamente locali, storici, geografici. In "Un vedovo" la mescolanza di patetismo crepuscolare, di sentimentalismo e di ironia della sorte, tanto cara al Pirandello, raggiungono le note più alte dei motivi a carattere dualistico del Cantoni: in questo racconto un vedovo profondamente afflitto dal dolore prega in una chiesa sulla bara della moglie quando di sorpresa ode il suono festoso delle campane che annunciano un matrimonio... Parallelamente al Cantoni, Salsano dà alle Smorfie gaie e alle Smorfie tristi di Roberto Bracco un posto altrettanto originale nel percorso tracciato e seguito dalla narrativa italiana. Di questi prende in esame "La vita e la favola", "Che c'entra l'onore?", "Una mano lava l'altra"... Nelle sue conclusioni Salsano sembra osservare con una vista da scienziato letterario, attraverso la potente lente del suo microscopio, le forme, gli stili, le filosofie in nuce, ancora allo stato germinale, ma che presto sarebbero scoppiate in 'epidemia' per opera di figure maggiori, quale per esempio Pirandello e coloro che lo hanno seguito. Lo stesso premio nobel, sottolinea Salsano, ebbe modo di apprezzare e dare un giudizio altamente elogiativo nei confronti del Cantoni. Egli lo definì "un critico fantastico in arte e scienza" (38), frase che costituisce il titolo di un'opera introduttiva al Cantoni da parte del Pirandello stesso. A proposito proprio di questa figura statuaria della letteratura italiana Salsano prende in esame la ben nota opera saggistica dello stesso, L'umorismo. L'analisi condotta da Salsano sulle considerazioni teorico-saggistiche di Pirandello è molto convincente. Ne vengono esaminati, spiegati, sviscerati con eleganza e con acume non privi di effetti comici vari passi. Il tema della discontinuità psicologica nell'opera e nel pensiero filosofico del Pirandello è elevato a momento creativo di nucleo di situazioni sviluppabili, di storie, di trame, di epiloghi, tutti in nuce. Salsano riporta un passo molto bello, significativo ed esaustivo de L'umorismo, a proposito dell' "impreveduto che è nella vita" e dell' "abisso che è nelle anime" nella logica del Pirandello: "Non ci sentiamo guizzar dentro, spesso, pensieri strani, quasi lampi di follia, pensieri inconseguenti, inconfessabili finanche a noi stessi, come sorti davvero da un'anima diversa da quella che normalmente ci conosciamo?" (24). Salsano sa isolare momenti importanti della riflessione del Pirandello e chiarifica la nostra posizione individuale e collettiva di fronte a essi. Ci fa retrocedere fino ai vari stati di sviluppo della nostra coscienza e della nostra consapevolezza del reale attraverso la critica letteraria, che per noi diventa comprensione, mirante a divenire assoluta e definitiva, del valore dell'esistenza e quindi del reale -- nella sua accezione positiva o negativa che essa sia. Il critico rispiega e posiziona con l'abilità di un artefice le colonne portanti della poetica e della narrativa pirandelliana; ne ridipinge lo sguardo disincantato del mondo, demistificante, sarcastico e pur sempre sofferente di fronte al dramma umano. Egli dimostra come la visione dello scrittore abbia frantumato la saldatura che nella prospettiva razionalistica e illuministica faceva della "ragione e prassi" e ugualmente dell'unione di "spirito-corpo" (30) una sola entità, per portarli a una disgregazione drammatica, tipica del periodo del decadentismo. Egli riporta a proposito, da L'umorismo, l'eloquente passo: "Vi sono anime irrequiete, quasi in uno stato di fusione continua, che sdegnano di rapprendersi..." (31). Pur in presenza di questa dicotomia -- del resto senza alcun carattere pregiudiziale -- Salsano difende infine l'unità poetica del Pirandello spiegando come in lui le riflessioni, le fantasie, i concetti, le lezioni in nuce si compenetrino e si svolgano in un percorso articolato, variamente implicativo sì, ma equilibrato e supremamente e significativamente unitario. Questo del Salsano è un utile nuovo strumento di studio per tutti coloro che amano la narrativa. Esso è non solo intelligentemente preparato per quelli che la letteratura la studiano, ma anche e soprattutto destinato a coloro che ne vogliano scoprire, allo scopo anche di impadronirsene, i meccanismi misteriosi, a volte apparentemente imperscrutabili, segreti, della creazione in nuce e il successivo sviluppo dell'idea artistica, novellistica o letteraria che la si voglia dire. Aspiranti critici, scrittori, opinionisti lo troveranno un documento prezioso, a cui attingere per riannodare mentalmente alcuni capisaldi della narrativa contemporanea. Sarà utile agli studiosi per 'affilare' i propri strumenti di analisi all'ombra di un eccellente maestro, per imparare a leggere, e a giudicare da esperti, le tendenze, i fenomeni, gli eventi letterari e la loro portata, chiunque ne siano i principiatori. E infine, perché no, se ne raccomanda la lettura anche a chi voglia solo farsi venire l'ispirazione artistica.

University of Toronto—Quaderni di Italianistica

Il mio umore (My Spirit)
(poem)
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Il mio umore
è come il mare
fluttua senza quietare,
è come il vento
soffia forte lento,
è come il sole
si leva e muore.

My spirit is the seas
fluctuates without release,
is the wind that flows
blows strong, yet down it slows,
is the sun rising in the skies
it sets and then dies.

from The Adolescent
(book)
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FOREWORD

I am not sure whether this phenomenon is limited to Italy, but the adolescent novel - from the literary succès de scandale of Porci con le ali in the seventies to its recent sentimental and non-political re-reading in Jack Frusciante è uscito dal gruppo - represents a well-established genre in the literary history - or, at least, chronicles - of this last quarter of the century. Of course, one can venture more or less plausible hypothesis, that have to do not only with literature, but also with sociology and the history of customs. For instance, it might be due to the fact that Italy is a country in which deep-rooted traditions and, more importantly, a vertiginously high unemployment rate, more or less force many twenty- and not a few thirty-years to share living quarters with their parents, thus pushing the category of the "youth" to the very threshold of middle age. As a result, the problem typical of teen-agers of one's relationship with the family and with its alternative, one's circle of friends, resonates well beyond adolescence understood simply as a biological phase. Or it might be that the need of giving a voice to an experience which had remained on the margins of cultural production was stimulated by the politicization of Italian students between 1968 and the seventies, which made them aware of their capacities and of the disrupting power of their utopianism. Whatever the reason, the phenomenon is interesting, and still seems to have a few surprises in store for the reader. Anthony Cristiano's novel The Adolescent is an original contribution to this narrative trend. The story of Felice and his friends is made of the daily vicissitudes that adolescence lives as traumatic events or, to put it better, of those traumas that appear futile or irrelevant only to the disillusioned retrospective glance of the adults, who have lost the capability of living every minute of one's life at its utmost intensity. Thus, adolescence is seen as a state of absolute passions, in which emotions amass, overlap, and replace one another in a sort of perpetual motion by virtue of one common denominator: their capacity of totally overcoming the most intimate recesses of an individual's inner life. The author follows with minute accuracy, but also, I would say, with gentle narrative grace, the fluctuations of his characters' passions, their emotional turmoil which reaches the highest peaks of excitement to plunge immediately into the abyss of discouragement and alienation. Thus, in a few instants Felice goes from a clumsy attempt at suicide - complete with a note to his parents in which the intimate conviction of being irreparably destined to defeat is voiced through the stereotypical expressions of school readings, which however in the new context regain their innocent sincerity - to the frantic rescue of Luciana, the friend whom Felice observes from a distance without being able to voice his confused feelings, and who, like him, has decided to put an end to her life, thus translating into action her anguished relationship with the world. The adventures that follow this act of heroism in a minor key seem to confirm Felice's conviction that there cannot be any kind of accommodation or even simply reciprocal understanding between oneself and the adult world, until finally things resume their normal proportions, and even the young protagonist finds himself compelled to admit, in an excess of optimism, that "life is strange, sometimes it's beautiful". It is not by chance that his interlocutor, Felice's friend Matteo, replies ironically with an example taken from the world of fairy tales, a world in which, as in adolescence, everything appears to have superhuman dimensions, and passions and feelings, not to mention people, are strictly black-and-white: "It's a fairy tale! There's always an idiot who will play the bad wolf!" The conscious - and consistent - choice to avoid an unmediated representation of the language of youth, with its ephemeral commonplaces and its fashionable jargon, preferring instead a spoken language in perpetual equilibrium between the standard Italian and the vernacular, is a result of the intention of projecting the representation of adolescence beyond the contingent and onto a space half-way between chronicle memory. In other word, adolescence is represented as, so to speak, an "existential" condition, whose dynamics, in spite of the idiomatic and behavioural peculiarities that superficially differentiate one generation from the next, remain in essence unchanged, and link the older to the younger generations. In short, Cristiano is not concerned with the most external and cliché issues of adolescence, but with the internal structures that regulate a young person's tormented relationship with the world. By rejecting another convention of the genre, namely a first person narrative which seems to give, voice to the immediate adolescent experience, the author keeps a steady distance from his characters, watching them at times with amused fondness but more often with an impartiality which lets things emerge in their proper dimensions from the structure of the story, and yet allowing himself the freedom to follow the ups and downs of Felice's emotions with sudden stylistic broad strokes (consider for instance the scene on page 55, in which the protagonist sees Luciana's rescue as the deed of a knight errant from a comic book or Hollywood movie). On a stylistic level, the distance between narrator and events is even clearer. The Adolescent is a visual novel, constructed according to the rhythm and the narrative movement of a filmic text. In every scene a careful process of editing combines the various narrative sequences almost as if following an imaginary camera that alternates close-up and detail shots with long shots. Often, the story is cut down to minimal elements - short references to the environment that remind one of stage directions in a script, and a concise dialogue almost overheard live: Municipal road. It is daybreak. The car, with the license plate "Roma", with Giacinto and Grazia aboard, runs through the grey misty morning along the main street to leave town. It passes a road sign on the side of the road at the periphery of town with the statement: LAURIELLO ARRIVEDERCI In the car Grazia is checking her purse. "How are you?" asks Giacinto. "Will it take long to get there?" "No... Have you been to the Policlinico before?" "Don't you remember?! [...]" The minimalism of the novel certainly reflects the influence of the American writers of the eighties, but it is also, and perhaps above all, the result of a careful study of the expressive possibilities of a language which attempts to leave words behind and to get as close as possible, almost asymptotically, to the pure visual quality of the cinematic code (Cristiano is, in fact, also the author of several screenplays). However, this is not a mere stylistic choice. The theme of seeing, in its various declensions - observing and being observed, spying and being the victim of someone's else curious eye, examining and being subjected to a continuous enquiry - crosses the entire novel, giving it thematic unity and narrative coherence. From the first few pages, in which Felice scrutinizes the most minute details of his own self with the typical narcissism of adolescence, to the various episodes in which the protagonist is simultaneously the object of the interested attention of neighbours and acquaintances and a careful observer of the reality that surrounds him (not without a touch of voyeuristic fascination), the narration details in details the relationships among the characters and between them and the events that take place around them through the trajectory of glances that transform the world into a panoply of relations. At the centre, as suits the age, there is him, the adolescent of the title, who catches himself in the act of watching and, above all, who watches himself living and wonders about the meaning of his acts and of his emotions. There will be time to discover the elusiveness of the answers; for now, it is perhaps enough for Felice to find in these answers a centre around which to build his own fragile identity.

Foreword by Luca Somigli, Assistant Professor of Italian Studies, University of Toronto

opening of The Adolescent:

FELICE is a skinny kid, dark-complexioned, with two penetrating eyes and some pimples on his young face. He is lying in an enormous cradle hooked to a hot air balloon. He is rising in the sky; he sees the blue sky and snowy chenille soft white clouds. He looks down from the cradle and sees the green earth receding below him. He looks up again; holding onto the balloon is a young girl. She has a strange appearance; she doesn't have a real body, only many wings under her head. The girl smiles, Felice smiles back then looks around. He is happy, then frightened at finding himself on top of the balloon about to fall off. He tries to clutch at something but there isn't anything to clutch, only an enormous ball from which he slides away. He starts to flap his own wings, discovering they are the same as the girl's. He stops from falling and pulls himself into the cradle; he opens his eyes heavy with sleep, and realizes his head lies on the mattress, crouched as he is on one edge of the bed [...]

Journey in the City of Masks
(short story)
_______________________________________________________________________________

I was awarded a prize and was invited to go and redeem it, or better, to receive it personally at the awards ceremony. The flight and stay in Italy were fully covered. I accepted with great pleasure. I was now living permanently in Canada, and I had recently returned from Italy, after having spent a brief vacation with my mother, my twin brother and father as I had not seen them for two years. Nevertheless the possibility of going back to Italy for a couple of days (other commitments impeded me from staying longer), after having been there just weeks prior, thrilled me. I was very excited. A friend of mine in Toronto, Geneviève, wanted to accompany me to the airport; she was also excited as she loved Italy. She once told me that she found Toronto -- the city in which she was born and raised -- squalid and lifeless, while Italian cities appeared lively and happy. At that moment I thought about those words and I completely shared the opinion, although I considered myself lucky to live in Toronto and I knew her words weren't meant to be taken too seriously. At the Venice airport, Irma Salvuzzi was waiting for me. This kind lady -- who was soon to become a friend -- was asked to come and pick me up and bring me to the hotel. Along the way we chatted pleasantly; however, I couldn't help but think about the day to follow, the first of many wonderful events which were about to happen, my meeting with Mariangela in Venice. Mariangela has a bubbly character but she is never superficial, on the contrary she is capable of intense and profound moments. I love to mirror myself in her. I could stare at her for hours, without letting her talk; I would ask her not to speak a word, I would beg her to let me read by the expression on her face all that she thinks and feels, or at least what I believe she thinks and feels. It is an extraordinary thing to be able to stare at a person without causing embarrassment, to understand and be understood without uttering a word. Mariangela and I had already experienced this but our friendship had grown even stronger in the past few weeks. She was now gone to live in Venice for a year; she had won a bursary which allowed her to study at the University of Ca' Foscari where she was to complete courses for the University of Toronto, where she was officially registered. Who would ever have guessed that I was to go to Venice only a few days after she had gone there? So before Mariangela would leave, I told her that I would be going to Venice for a couple of days. She looked at me and said, "No, you're kidding me!" "No, I'm not kidding you," I answered. Then we agreed that we had to meet in Venice, yes, we absolutely had to find a way to meet. Therefore Mariangela left for Venice a couple of weeks before I did. At the time I left I made sure I had brought with me the phone number at which to reach her in Venice, given to me through her aunt Noreen in Toronto. I arrived in Venice in the afternoon and the same evening I called Mariangela. We rejoiced in hearing each other's voice in Italy; we decided where we would meet: at the train station ticket office at 10:30 in the morning. I was so happy, I couldn't wait to go to my appointment. That evening I visited with the organisers, friends and other local winners of the Award. We chatted, ate, joked together, and the next morning I had breakfast with some of them in the hotel. Then I headed to my appointment happy and elated. I arrived dreadfully late. Mariangela was not there, or not any longer. I didn't know what to think, and yet the explanation appeared simple: I had arrived almost an hour late and she must have gone. But there was something strange about the situation. I knew Mariangela well enough to convince myself that she wouldn't have left or that she would have at least come back. However she did not re-appear. I faced the exterior of the train station, over the Canal Grande, over this enchanting city like a Venus who emerges from the sea, but I didn't pay attention to her. Something weird happened to me, something that still today, thinking about it, makes me feel bad. I wouldn't know how to explain it. A sense of aborted expectation; I was feeling like the victim of a cruel sorcery caused by the waters of Venice. I felt as if this city with its irresistible fascination and infinite patience had waited for this very day to lay a trap for me. I began to run, in search of Mariangela. I didn't know where to look for her, but I had an entire day before me and I convinced myself that if I tried hard I would find her. I followed the crowd of tourists headed downtown to Piazza San Marco. As I ran I looked around, in the stores, in the side streets, on the people's faces hoping to run into Mariangela. The international tourists must have thought of me as a crazy horse, or even better, maybe as a Triton expelled from the waters for having denied his real nature and wanting to take the guise of humans, loosing God's favour and the light of reason. Certainly it crossed my mind that this idea of mine was an absurd one, nevertheless something inside me gave me strength to the point of stubbornness. It had to do with a mathematical principle, that of probability, according to which the probability of whatever event to occur depends on the frequency with which the conditions favouring its occurrence are re-created. I applied this principle to my situation as I moved as quickly as possible from one point to the other of this mythical city, because the more times I crossed the city the higher the probability of meeting my Mariangela. The number of displacements in the unit of time, I would be able to accomplish, and the probability of meeting Mariangela were proportional quantities. Moreover, if I could reduce in some way the area in which to look for her, my big challenge would become a smaller one. I had almost reached Campo S.S. Apostoli when the Ca' Foscari University came back to my mind. Mariangela would have certainly spent part of the day there, at the university to which she had come to study. Suddenly the area of my search was greatly decreased now. I immediately stopped and addressed a man who was attending the entrance of a restaurant, probably the owner of the place; pointing hurriedly with my hands towards the four cardinal points and their medians, I asked him in which direction would the university be. "Which university?" answered the man, "There are more than one." Shortly after he gave me directions to reach Ca' Foscari University, which was in the opposite direction from which I had precipitated. I would have had to cross the Canal Grande to reach the university. Therefore I proceeded to the celebrated Ponte di Rialto, and changed direction. On the bridge, the streams of tourists and the dense string of shops that flanks the street in the middle of the bridge, forced me to slow down, and occasionally to stop. I looked beyond the ramp over the sides of the bridge, to the Canale, the gondolas, the city, then back to the people on the bridge, and the front of the shops covered by masks. I lingered absent-mindedly on every thing. There wasn't any time; I had to run quickly to the university before Mariangela would head to other places, in which case I would have to look for her all over the place. But once again I couldn't avoid looking at her, Venice, as a seductive siren seated on a reef half rising out of the water, bewitching me with the sound of her song. Strangely my saliva became bitter-sweet to me, as one who lets himself be shipwrecked by opposite winds that rival each other over the seas. Once I finally crossed the Ponte di Rialto, I ushered into the less crowded calli. Some of these were so narrow that when I came upon someone coming toward me from the opposite direction, we had to turn sideways on the street so that each of us could proceed without bumping into the other. Here the city appeared labyrinthine to me, and strangely menacing: narrow and silent calli and canals, where the walls of the surrounding houses appeared higher than they were -- for a moment I had the feeling that they wanted to fall upon me as if to conceal me in themselves. I thought about Thomas Mann, and I was relieved from the fact that even illustrious men like him experienced the fatality of this enchanted city. Along my run I passed various students, the sight of whom assured me of the proximity of the university. After having crossed a couple of canals I reached Campo S. Polo, and through other calli and other canals, I arrived at last at Ca' Foscari University. I entered the enormous courtyard and I headed for the right door of the fifteenth-century building. I searched it all, from top to bottom, and then exited from the left door. I must have entered corridors and rooms normally forbidden to students and wayfarers, but the speed with which I crossed them impeded the astonished staff to inquire on my account. In any case, I asked myself why there were so few students, least of all Mariangela. Where was everyone? I met numerous students along the way here, where did they end up? They were all at the registrar's office. In fact, I soon learned that the ancient university premises were being restored, and only one classroom was left active. I ran to the registrar's office, temporarily moved to Campo S. Margherita. There I saw not one but bunches of students. They were lined up haphazardly in front of three counters. I heaved a sigh of relief. Surely Mariangela was among them. Kindly and apologetically I broke further the already slapdash rows, looking at the same time at each of them for a female student with long dark walnut hair. They stared back at me with equal wonder as if to say: "Who the hell are you looking for?" I would have liked to answer, "I would explain every thing to you, but I haven't the time... Destiny forbids me." I became discouraged when, looking at the last girl, I did not recognise in her Mariangela's face. Now I had to look for her again all over Venice. The mathematical principle which made me so determined, although valid, now appeared arduous to apply to my situation. This venture of mine was an impossible one. One of those ventures that only miracles can make succeed. I would have needed many wings and many eyes as the angels of the Apocalypse, to fly over the city from above, and be able to locate my friend wherever she may be. I tried to call the number with which I had contacted Mariangela the night before. No one answered, not even an unlikely to be found, answering machine that would have cheered me up. I tried calling again later. Surprisingly someone picked up the receiver. "Mariangela?" I said hopefully. "Who is talking?" replied an older woman's voice. It was another of Mariangela's aunts who had no idea where Mariangela would have gone, lingering here and there in Venice. I asked her if she could let Mariangela know, if she called, that I would wait for her at 16:30 at the same ticket office at which we were supposed to meet that same morning. The woman expressed her wish to help me, but she was sorry to let me know that soon she would be going out. Nevertheless she informed me that in that house other girls lived, and perhaps one of them would be there to answer the phone. I wandered in Venice for most of the afternoon, infatuated with its waters, its gondolas that were dancing on in the undertow, its light, softened by the microscopic sprinkling of the sea water, the sumptuous buildings that face the Canal Grande, her merry and stirring humanity. Everything appeared to me so sensual and erotic and I could not but abandon myself to its irresistible charm. Soon I felt starving, because of all the running I had done. The hunger increased even more my rapture; however, dazed by weakness I showed signs of swooning. I would have to put something into my mouth immediately otherwise I would collapse. What would I eat? Since I was in Italy, I thought to go in one of those small grocery stores where I could have a panino with mortadella and cheese made, which every time I eat, recalls to my mind scents and memories of my early adolescence. One panino wasn't enough for me. The first one I devoured along the streets, and when I finished it, I stopped in another grocery store and had another. Then all that bread and sliced mortadella and cheese made me so thirsty that I ran to by a soft drink; a chinotto that I gulped down like a barbarian. These were the only moments in which I almost forgot everything. Although I was wandering, I didn't neglect to continue to search for Mariangela among the crowds of tourists and citizens in every corner and nook of the city. Misfortune had two effects on me: either it would render me mean and rebellious or subjugate me to the point of religious resignation. But either way, there was no room in my heart for renunciation. It was as if I was driven by an incomprehensible faith that, despite the eclipse of the day I would still find my friend. This was the only day in which a meeting would have been possible. The other ones were reserved for other events, and then I would have to return to Toronto. I prayed fervently to God, asking Him to give me a hand. But it seemed that His will did not provide for it, at least not exactly in the way in which I was expecting it. I walked in circles around the city, and at the same time I continued to rack my brains on what the hell could have happened. Why didn't Mariangela and I meet? Could it really be possible that there was someone in the after-world who didn't want it, that in an intangible spiritual realm resided powers that were interested in men's vicissitudes? I didn't know if I should feel foolish or perspicacious. I was convinced that Mariangela had called her house, and had asked about me, as from the other side I did with her. We were each in search for the other, but unfortunately there was an undefined curse that impeded us from meeting. I re-crossed the Ponte di Rialto, and went to the nearby post office premises. At a public telephone I called Mariangela's number again. The phone rang in vain. I replaced the receiver and immersed myself back into the crowd, heading for Piazza S. Marco. The square was invaded by the pigeons, as always; some tourists were having fun feeding them, and the pigeons consequently would plane upon them in the hundreds. These same tourists, panic-stricken, would then wave hysterically to protect themselves from the onslaught of pigeons. I turned to the Palazzo Ducale, and I stared at the famous facade and its thirty-six columns, then I raised my head to the belltower -- Campanile -- that was beside me, and I remembered the recent news about the "Assalto al Campanile". Attracted by the music coming from one of the famous outdoor cafés, I resumed my walk. What a shame. Mariangela and I had looked forward with much enthusiasm to the possibility of seeing each other in Venice, but what can I say? That the goddess of the sea didn't want us to? I had no idea. Now I had nothing left to do but to go back to the ticket office for 16:30, in the hope that Mariangela would be there. I made sure to arrive sufficiently in advance to the aspired appointment. Once I reached the Ponte di Rialto I went to the right bank of the Canale, where I could avoid the crowds, by walking along calli less crowded. Once in a while I came across a masked life-size mannequin, who guarded the entrance of its shop. The mannequin wore the bautta, the typical black velvet mask, and the domino, a hooded black cloak. And each time attracted by the sense of mystery the dark figure conveyed to me, I would stop to gaze at it, trying to interpret its concealed message. Then I browsed inside the shops. I found in them only women, sometimes very young, occupied with painting the frames of new masks. The walls of the shops were covered entirely by masks, all extraordinarily crafted by hand, I concluded. I gazed at each mask for long moments, and they suddenly returned my stares; Arlecchino, Brighella... Pulcinella... and I think I recognised among them Bacco as well. I remembered that I was told in the past the Venetian used to wear the bautta only to remain incognito. It is said that not being recognised allowed them a sincerity of expression humanly impossible without the mask. What all this really meant escaped me. At a certain points I was observed with some suspicion by the shopkeepers, causing me to feign the interest of a purchaser, "Excuse me, how much does this one cost?" I would ask while pointing at a bautta. "40,000" would answer the woman, half serious and half burlesque. And I would be reawaken from my mental torpor. The matter of the masks confused me a little. In all of Venice, pretence was manufactured in the form of these masks and their adornments. Was this perhaps the meaning of my experience in Venice? What if Mariangela had been at the place of our appointment, or coming back to it, but I couldn't recognise her, nor could she have recognised me? Foolishness. I had to be a rational being. I had not to forget that I arrived an hour late at our appointment. My being late had its implication, as the algebraic curves have theirs in projective geometry. Nevertheless I was still convinced that there was something strangely more complex behind it; after all, the outcomes of events always conceal secrets. I felt that I should perhaps walk backwards along the road that had led me to disorientation in order to solve the enigma. Maybe I could then learn something from this bizarre experience, and meet Mariangela. I arrived at the station before 16:30. I went to the ticket office and I looked at each person that was there carefully in the face. Surely my speculations about the masks must have made me appear ridiculous. Mariangela was not there. However it wasn't yet 16:30, and so I waited, standing at the entrance of the ticket office facing the Canal Grande. Now and then I also looked at the interior of the station, even though Mariangela could have appeared only from the exterior, vomited by Venice as from the throat of Venus. I waited for a long time, supported by a vain hope. The program of the awards ceremony, provided that at 21:00 of that same day I would have to be elsewhere. I wondered, disappointed, if I would meet Mariangela before that time. Some tourists from overseas passed by me, joking amongst themselves, waving some masks they had bought in the city. I looked again over the Canal Grande and its city as if I wanted to ask it the outcome of the whole situation, and I had the impression that she smiled at me, prepared for the night, pervertedly beautiful and seductive; as if mistress of her nymphs and proud of her myths, she was inviting me to drink from her waters as from an expiatory cup. Then I saw on the other shore the wind blow a hat from the head of a tourist into the Canale. Disillusioned, I tried to call the usual number. Much to my surprise, someone answered. It was one of the girls, and she knew something about Mariangela. "Thank heaven," I said to her, "You can't imagine how what you are telling me makes me feel." Loredana, this I believe was her name, met with Mariangela only in the morning, before the latter left for the entire day, but she knew that Mariangela would come home after 18:30. Therefore she invited me to meet her there. She gave me the necessary directions to reach the house, including the street name and the house number, all far from Venice, but the bus on which I should board. As a desperate remedy this did not appear bad at all, on the contrary it comforted me; provided that I would really meet with Mariangela. At 21:00 I would have to be in Villa Visentini, in the province of Treviso, so I absolutely had to meet her before then. If I could make it, I was already thinking that I would bring her with me, to make up for the disastrous events of that morning. I had to go to Piazzale Roma, not far from the train station, to procure a ticket at the bus-ticket-office and take the bus... I took the early bus and I headed for the house where I would at last meet Mariangela. On the bus I took pleasure in launching various furtive glances at the girls that I found on it. Now that I live in Toronto, Italian girls assumed an exotic charm to me. Nevertheless, before the bus reached my destination they all got off, as if scattered by the baleful destiny that was hot on my heels. I looked through the windows of the bus, and I couldn't see Venice nor the sea anymore. Later I got off the bus, and it was easy for me to locate Mariangela's home. I rang the bell, but the house was surprisingly empty. I waited a while; then I went to sit on a bench on the other side of the street, from where I could keep an eye on that door. It was almost 18:30, and I thought that Mariangela and the others would come back home any time. I remained seated for what seemed to me a very long time, then I persuaded myself to take a walk and come back later to ring the bell of that door which I hoped would reveal the secret of the incantation of which I had been a victim. I stood up and started to walk along the street, but not far enough from the windows of the house to be missed by someone looking in the street, suddenly I heard someone calling my name: "Anthony!" "Mariangela!" I turned around, it was really her! Thank heaven, it was really her! At last, what I saw was Mariangela's face, and only hers. Mariangela watched me from the window while I turned around and headed for her. She laughed from a sense of relief, and then she came down to open the door. We embraced warmly, forgetting all the exertion of the day. At this point it became dark, but there was still the possibility of spending some happy hours at the Villa Visentini. I asked her to come with me to the dinner to which I was invited, as provided by the program of the Award. We chatted animatedly while she decided what to wear, then she dressed and we left. We went to Villa Visentini in a taxi. Along the street, while Mariangela talked to me, I thought how silly we had been, waiting for each other in two different stations! I learned that the outcome of an error is its expiation, and that often stories commence in a certain way and end unexpectedly in another. We were once again late. We rang several times the bell of the villa. The custodian opened the door to us and accompanied us half way to the banquet. The rest of the guests had already eaten the appetiser, and they made room for me and Mariangela, but in two separate places at the enormous table. We were more then twenty people, and among us there were the writers Cino Boccazzi, Ferdinando Camon, Fabrizio Dentice, Stanley G. Eskin, Alberto Ongaro and Alessandro Arbo, but somehow I felt that in the air above us was the ghost of the writer Giovanni Comisso as well. Mariangela was brimming over with joy. Everyone appreciated her, and were delighted to have among them a guest so young and beautiful. Beautiful were the three following days as well, and magnificent was the Award ceremony, which will continue to flatter me for a long time. The third day I came back to Toronto, overwhelmed, happy, and also a little depressed. At the time I wrote this story, I set content to my work once again. Yet now and then I re-read this tale, and despite the time that has passed, I continue to meditate on its meaning then as for today.

Se sapessi (If I Kewn how)
(poem)
_____________________________________________________________________________

Se sapessi io guarire
ti porterei a sentire
oltre la stanza del destino
il grido esultante del mattino.

If I knew how to heal
I would bring you to feel,
beyond the room of your stay
over the moon, to the break of day.

Intervalli chiaroscuri (Chiaroscuri Intervals)
(poem)
_____________________________________________________________________

Uno sguardo
nel buio mattutino
mentre il sole
ritorna dal confino,

il susseguirsi
di intervalli chiaroscuri
al movimento
di orologi appesi ai muri,

la matassa di un sottile bagliore
che rappezza le tenebre del cuore;

avvolto
in un respiro prolungato
i tratti
di un volto avviluppato,
l'alternarsi
di visioni chiaroscure
al persistere
di recondite paure,

la matassa di un sottile bagliore
che rappezza le tenebre del cuore,
la matassa di un sottile bagliore
che rappezza le tenebre del cuore.

The alternating
of chiaroscuri visions
my merry spirit sears
at the persistence
of hidden fears.

Wrapped in a
prolonged breath
my muddled face
escapes the dreamy wreath.

A merry-go-round of clocks
tuned in perpetual festivals
score the progression
of chiaroscuri intervals.

I glance in the
early morning dark
and watch the sun
clear up the exile mark…

while a tread of a tenuous glare
patches my heart's shadowy wear.

The Nature of Commedia dell'arte Improvisation
(essay)
_______________________________________________________________________

In testi quali Theories of the Theatre di Carlson, Dell'arte rappresentativa premeditata e all'improvviso di Perrucci, Manuale minimo dell'attore di Fo, The World of Harlequin di Nicoll, Commedia dell'Arte an Actor's Handbook di Rudlin, si illustra esaurientemente della Commedia all'improvviso, altro nome con cui ci si riferiva alla Commedia dell'arte. Analizzando la storia di questa tradizione artistica, attraverso i suoi protagonisti antichi e moderni, emerge subito una distinzione che ha influito molto sull'arte dei commedianti, o meglio sugli attori, le maschere, della Commedia dell'arte. Dopo il Seicento, infatti, la Commedia all'improvviso subì un radicale cambiamento. Dagli intecci e scenari, in cui solo la trama era scritta, mentre i dialoghi erano affidati all'estro inventivo dei singoli attori, si passa a un testo interamente scritto dall'autore. Di conseguenza la natura dell'improvvisazione era alquanto diversa nei due casi, ovvero a seconda che si trattasse di uno sceneraio o di una commedia interamente messa per iscritto. Inizialmente, quando esistevano solo repertori di intrecci e trame, tutto il lavoro della rappresentazione stessa era affidata alla compagnia. Erano gli attori di provato mestiere, a mettere effettivamente in scena il lavoro. Lo spettacolo si concretava e si esauriva nella rappresentazione stessa. L'improvvisazione, ovvero l'estro creativo degli attori in scena, erano l'anima e il corpo della commedia. Gli attori si conoscevano bene l'un l'altro, sapevano quanto erano bravi i loro colleghi, erano capaci di leggerne il linguaggio fisico, celato al pubblico. La compagnia disponeva di un proprio repertorio di intrecci, sul quale basava il suo lavoro; e questo repertorio non aveva ragione di essere reso pubblico, in quanto era privo di significato al di fuori della compagnia stessa. I repertori, insieme alla conoscenza dei propri colleghi, e alle ripetute esperienze di lavoro, rendevano possibile quella creazione ogni giorno rivissuta della commedia. A questi comici non occorreva imparere le parti a memoria, bastava che leggessero il soggetto della vicenda prima di andare in scena, perché lo spettacolo avesse inizio. Le singole maschere avevano anni di esperienza nei loro ruoli, e molto raramente si incaricavano di recitare un ruolo diverso dal proprio. Tuttavia per espletare il loro ruolo non era sufficiente che fossero di battuta facile, abili a inventare lazzi e così via, ma dovevano anche avere pronti un numero di concetti, sentenze, rimproveri, deliri, in formule fisse, da poter adoperare a seconda dell'occasione e dell'opportunità presentatasi, in armonia con i personaggi rappresentati. Così le scene d'amore, quelle di disperazione o di condanna, richiedevano l'improvvisazione adatta alla situazione. Le loro battute, i loro scherzi e lazzi, costituivano i loro strumenti di lavoro, ed erano raccolti in repertori che si tramandavano, e arricchivano, da un attore a un altro. La messa in scena più che richiedere un sforzo psicologico, come ci è stato spiegato nel seminario di recitazione, richiedeva prontezza, sacrificio, abilità alla coordinazione e un arduo lavoro. Per esempio il passaggio di battute richiedeva sacrificio in quanto bisognava tener conto di ciò che il collega aveva appena detto, e forse rinunciare a una certa battuta che si aveva in mente in quanto ormai consumata. In altre circostanze occorreva rivitalizzare l'azione, che andava affievolendosi, con un'invenzione nuova, o riportare la storia sulla strada maestra quando i colleghi sembrano smarrirsi altrove. Con l'avvio a una tradizione scritta, ovvero dell'opera scritta, e descritta, in tutte le sue parti, le cose cambiarono. Sia il Goldoni che il Gozzi favorirono questa tradizione, in quanto dava loro la possibilità di determinare e controllare significato e direzione dello spettacolo in ogni sua parte. Pertanto il significato dell'improvvisazione cambiò, insieme alla necessità e allo spazio di tale improvvisazione. Lo spettacolo non si concretava ed esauriva più nella rappresentazione stessa. Improvvisare non significò più dar vita a un lavoro altrimenti inesistente. La necessità di improvvisare si ridusse notevolmente. Non era necessario improvvisare nel vecchio senso del termine, ma occorreva memorizzare precise battute affidate a ciascun ruolo e maschera, in una sequenza prestabilita all'interno della storia, così come previsto dall'autore nel suo lavoro scritto. Quel ridotto spazio riservato all'imporvvisazione era affidato ad attori celebri e di cui si aveva fiducia, quali Antonio Sacchi, e soltanto a questi e non al collega o spalla in scena con lui. Tuttavia anche in questi casi l'improvvisazione non era più quella di una volta, ovvero non ricorreva libera e imprevedibile ma all'interno di un suo preciso spazio in uno specifico atto, in una specifica scena, come accordato in parte con l'autore. Inizialmente, questa diversa natura che l'improvvisazione assunse all'interno della Commedia, sarà sembrata restrittiva agli amanti della tradizione. Alcuni erano del parere che il testo interamente scritto togliesse vivacità e naturalezza agli attori, ora costretti a imparare un parte interamente a memoria. Altri, come il Goldoni, la considerarono uno strumento necessario a ridare dignità e vita a una tradizione ormai consumata e divenuta scandalosa. Aver ridotto l'improvvisazione e fornito agli attori e a ciasuna maschera le loro battute, ha migliorato a loro avviso la qualità dello spettacolo. I testi scritti avrebbero eliminato ogni situazione imbarazzante, evitato che un attore replicasse nel momento sbagliato a un suo collega, o che altri debbano ricorrere a esagerazioni e assurdità per tenere in vita una vena comica che sentivano estinguersi. Gli attori non erano più tenuti a recitare in perpetuo le stesse maschere, ma veniva loro afferta la possibilità di assumere nuovi ruoli, e impararne le parti, con la possibilità di lavorare ante, ha migliorato a loro avviso la qualità dello spettacolo. I testi scritti avrebbero eliminato ogni situazione imbarazzante, evitato che un attore replicasse nel momento sbagliato a un suo collega, o che altri debbano ricorrere a esagerazioni e assurdità per tenere in vita una vena comica che sentivano estinguersi. Gli attori non erano più tenuti a recitare in perpetuo le stesse maschere, ma veniva loro afferta la possibilità di assumere nuovi ruoli, e impararne le parti, con la possibilità di lavorare ante, ha migliorato a loro avviso la qualità dello spettacolo. I testi scritti avrebbero eliminato ogni situazione imbarazzante, evitato che un attore replicasse nel momento sbaglCommedia dell'arte. Maschere e attori presto acquistarono dimestichezza con i testi scritti e la memorizzazione dei loro interventi. Essi intravidero presto la possibilità di arrichire queste loro parti apportandovi il proprio stile e abbellendo la recitazione con le peculiari abilità di ciascuno. La stessa tecnica è stata adottata da attori moderni che hanno portato con successo questi medesimi capolavori sulle ribalte internazionali.

Infinitely Near
(film script, videorecording)
________________________________________________________________________________

01EXT. UNIVERSITY CAMPUS. PARK. DAY. (STREET SOUNDS)

Gabriel, a nineteen year old boy, with a backpack sits alone on a bench. He glances at the ground in a meditative pose. He bends over the grass and picks a little flower; he brings it to his face and caresses it softly, examining the space left between his finger and the petal of the little flower. Then he spins the flower in his fingers while he fixes his eye to the ground gaining that meditative look again.

02INT. UNIVERSITY. MATH CLASS (FLASHBACK). DAY.

A bearded man, about fifty, PROF. TRAIL, the math professor, lectures. He writes some formulas on the blackboard: He is giving a lesson on the limit of a function. He draws a straight line and fixes a point on it, then he directs the attention to many imaginable little dots infinitely near to the fixed point, tapping with the chalk more and more closely to the fixed point. He plots a graph of a function y = f(x).

03EXT. UNIVERSITY CAMPUS. PARK. DAY. (STREET SOUNDS)

Gabriel stands up from the bench and starts walking towards Robarts Library. He keeps addressing the street in front of him yet looks as if he is seeing something else, in his hand he continues to spin the little flower.

04INT. UNIV.. MATH CLASS (FLASHBACK). DAY.

Prof. Trail makes use of the graph, y = f(x), he has drawn to expound the geometric interpretation of the concept of a limit.

05EXT. UNIVERSITY CAMPUS. DAY. (STREET SOUNDS)

Gabriel continues to walk slowly through the university campus. As he walks he sees an OLD GENTLEMAN sitting on a bench, reading a book. The old gentleman drops something: it's a pencil. Very slowly, he bends over and picks it up. Gabriel, with a discreet look, gazes at every small incurvation of the old gentleman. He scans his facial lines, the wrinkles, the white hair.

06INT. UNIV.. MATH CLASS (FLASHBACK). DAY.

Dr. Trail completes writing the following formulas, putting the infinity sign to the value of the limit of the function: y = f(x) y = 1/x2 x ¹ 0 lim f(x)= ¥ infinity x®0 Then the class ends, the students walk out.

07EXT. UNIVERSITY CAMPUS. DAY. (STREET SOUNDS)

Gabriel continues to walk through the university campus with his mind focused elsewhere.

08INT. GABRIEL'S HOME (FLASHBACK). DAY.

At his own desk, Gabriel shakes his head over a math book. Under his eyes is a notebook on which he has scribbled various formulas and exercises on the limit of functions. He stops and raises his head, gazing towards the ceiling.

09INT. UNIVERSITY CLASSROOM (FLASHBACK). DAY.

On the blackboard is written the following: "This is one of the most fundamental concepts in all of mathematics!!!" And the following: "More complex concepts, as space, time, velocity, relativity, infinity... even including eternity, are all linked to the notion of a limit!"

10EXT. UNIVERSITY CAMPUS. DAY. (STREET SOUNDS)

Gabriel stops momentarily and pulls out of his backpack his notes. His name is written on them: Gabriel Lontane. He looks at his notes while continuing to walk, now and then he raises his head, then he focuses his attention on a phrase he has noted: "? is as small as one wishes, but a small enough d? can always be found: this means that you can get closer and closer, infinitely near, to the value of the limit, but never reach it!" A female FRIEND walks by.

FRIEND Hello!

Gabriel stops, turns around.

GABRIEL (with a smile) Hello.

His glance drops to the detail of the creation of Adam, the Sistine Chapel fresco, enlarged in a book of paintings that a student beside him is looking at. He diverts his attention and sets off staring thoughtfully at the side walk in front of him.

11EXT. UNIV. CAMPUS. PARK (FLASHBACK). DAY.

Gabriel is talking with his girlfriend, SANDRA, while holding her hand, both sitting on the same bench that Gabriel was sitting on before. They start arguing, Gabriel reaches out a hand to caress Sandra, but she rejects it and stands up from the bench. Sandra addresses him with anger, then she leaves. Gabriel runs after her trying to persuade her to stop.

12INT. UNIVERSITY CLASSROOM (FLASHBACK). DAY.

Gabriel has come back to Dr. Trail to ask for more explanations about the concept of a limit. The professor has written and drawn various things on the blackboard for him:velocity = limit of space/time: V0 = lim [s(t0+h)-s(t0)]/h; circumference of a circle = limit of a polygon inscribed, with an infinite number "n" of sides; circumference = lim f(n); with f(n)= pn = 2nr sin ?/n; elastic or quarter with oscillations of a smaller and smaller amplitude inside an interval a,b; t = time, y = amplitude, y = f(t), lim f(t)= 0; t®¥ The professor pulls out a quarter from his pocket and puts it on the desk in front of Gabriel.

13EXT. UNIVERSITY CAMPUS. DAY. (STREET SOUNDS)

Gabriel directs his attention at his notes again while walking through the university campus. He glances at a particular phrase: "closer and closer to the limit, infinitely near, but never reaching it" He raises his head and with a perplexed glance gazes at the street in the distance. He passes Robarts Library and heads for Bloor Street.

14INT. GABRIEL'S HOME (FLASHBACK). DAY.

Gabriel writes a letter, sitting at his desk: Dear Sandra, I want to apologize to you. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I'm sorry. I learned many things these last few days. My math professor taught me that there are things we can perceive but which we can't completely touch, scan, understand the bottom of it. For instance, he said that in mathematics it is impossible to fill in the unit with a fractional number, throughout eternity you will always miss a bit, miss a bit... Doesn't this possibility fascinate you Sandra?

15INT. UNIVERSITY CLASSROOM (FLASHBACK). DAY.

The quarter is made to spin and oscillate on the teacher's desk until it stops.

16INT. GABRIEL'S HOME (FLASHBACK). DAY.

Gabriel raises his head from his own desk, he grabs the letter addressed to Sandra and brings it closer to his eyes. He scans the texture of the sheet, the writing, the single words, Sandra's name; he takes a magnifying glass, which is on his desk, and holds it over Sandra's name to the point of examining in detail the single letters, their calligraphy, every distinguishable single little dot of them...

17EXT. UNIVERSITY CAMPUS. DAY. (STREET SOUNDS)

Gabriel is approaching Bloor Street. A few metres from him a CHILD is stretching his arm, through the steel fence of a playground, in the attempt to recapture a tennis ball. The child's fingers stretch in the extreme effort of reaching the ball, barely failing to touch it. Gabriel, passing by, notices the child and stares for a moment at him. Then he bends over, picks up the ball for the child, and continues on his way. He reaches Bloor Street and stops at the red light. In a telephone booth, behind him, there is Sandra, who, unaware of Gabriel, dials the number written on her pocket diary: Gabriel 555 - 0423 The light is still red...

Il cervello (The Brain)
(poem)
__________________________________________________________________________

Combinations
permutations
repetitions
substitutions

aligning
linking
moving
grouping

chemic
electric
neurotic
synaptic
genetic
frenetic

genial
original
habitual
maniacal
criminal
lethal

frontal
parietal
occipital
temporal
cerebral.

Combinazioni
permutazioni
ripetizioni
sostituzioni

allineamenti
collegamenti
trasferimenti
raggruppamenti

chimico
elettrico
neurotico
sinaptico
genetico
frenetico

geniale
originale
abituale
maniacale
criminale
letale

frontale
parietale
occipitale
temporale
cerebrale.

What's wrong?
(script)
_________________________________________________________________________________

01. EXT. PRIVATE HOME. STREET CORNER. DAY.

A business MAN carrying a briefcase walks down a driveway to the sidewalk. He checks the time on his watch. He heads downtown. He suddenly changes his mind and walks the opposite way. He stops, hesitating for a moment, then changes once again his mind and heads in a third direction, totally different. CUT TO:

02. INT. CONVENTIONAL OFFICE. DAY.

A woman, LISA, sits at her desk looking for something among her papers. She checks her notebook: a list of phone numbers. She puts down the notebook and picks up her bag. She looks into the bag, without finding what she is looking for. CUT TO:

03. EXT. CITY STREETS. DAY.

A MAILMAN stands at the side of the street looking into his shoulder bag. He raises his right knee to hold the bag closer and peek better into it. CUT TO:

04. EXT. STREETCAR LINES. DAY.

A young man, LUCIO, sits idle on the side of the street. He looks at the traffic in front of him, his expression somewhat indifferent. A streetcar comes by. People come out of it and others get in. The streetcar resumes its route. An OLDER LADY stops by LUCIO. She bends over him to ask how he's doing. LUCIO nods with his head indicating that he's okay. The OLDER LADY leaves. ZOOM in to LUCIO. CLOSE-UP of LUCIO'S temple. CUT TO:

05. FULL FRAME:

A drop of grey ink spreads slowly in a clear glass of water. CUT TO:

06. EXT. STREETCAR LINES. DAY.

CLOSE-UP of the streetcar tracks on the ground. LUCIO is still sitting at the side of the street, looking passively in front of him. He scratches his chin thoughtfully. CUT TO:

07. FULL FRAME:

An array of medicine containers of different shapes and size sit on a shelf. CUT TO:

08. EXT. CITY STREETS. DAY.

At last, the MAILMAN finds the packet he's looking for and fetches it from his shoulder bag. He goes to the door of its addressee, and rings the bell. CUT TO:

09. EXT. STREET CORNER. DAY.

The business MAN carrying his briefcase walks confidently to a street corner. He checks his watch once again. CUT TO:

10. INT. CONVENTIONAL OFFICE. DAY.

LISA is still looking for the thing she is missing: she stands in front of her desk; her hands set to her waist, concerned. She checks among her books on the shelf. Something comes to her mind: she turns to a pile of papers in another corner. She removes a couple of sheets and grabs the small book underneath. The woman sighs relieved. She sits at her desk. She opens a drawer and pulls out a letter. There is a phone number and LUCIO'S name on it. She picks up the phone and dials the number. CUT TO:

11. EXT. STREET. BRIDGE. DAY.

LUCIO walks along the sidewalk of a bridge, busy with vehicles. He stops at the middle of it and looks at the vast scenery. CLOSE-UP of LUCIO'S contemplative and yet passive look. High angle: from the bridge to the ground. Low angle: from the ground to the bridge. High angle: from the bridge to the ground. Low angle: from the ground to the bridge. LUCIO throws a small paper plane from the bridge. The paper flies away and soon disappears. CLOSE-UP of LUCIO'S eyes gazing at the scenery, toward the horizon. The scene goes OUT OF FOCUS. CUT TO:

12. FULL FRAME:

The grey inch keeps spreading in the clear glass of water. CUT TO:

13. EXT. STREET. BRIDGE. DAY.

CLOSE shot of LUCIO, still gazing at the scenery of the bridge. CLOSE-UP of LUCIO'S temple. After a moment LUCIO turns and resumes his walk along the bridge. CUT TO:

14. EXT. CITY STREETS. DAY.

The MAILMAN holds onto the packet, by putting it back into his shoulder bag, and then resumes his route. CUT TO:

15. EXT. STREET CORNER. DAY.

The business MAN stands at the street corner holding his briefcase, waiting. He checks his watch, and keeps looking around at the people coming and going. CUT TO:

16. EXT. STREET. ICE CREAM TRUCK. DAY.

LUCIO walks by an ice cream truck. He looks at a KID standing beside the truck with change in his hands. The ICE CREAM MAN points to different flavours of ice cream drawn on the truck's body. The KID looks on, hesitating on what to choose. CLOSE-UP of the KID'S uncertain expression. LUCIO turns his attention back to the sidewalk as he keeps walking. CUT TO:

17. INT. HOME DESK. DAY.

SOUND: on a home desk the phone keeps ringing. There is pen on the desk with a sheet beside it, on which is written: 'What's wrong Lucio?' CUT TO:

18. INT. CONVENTIONAL OFFICE. DAY.

LISA sits at her desk holding the receiver at her ear. She frowns wondering why she doesn't get any answer. Lying on the desk is the small book she found among the pile of papers. The cover reads: 'Questions Young People Ask... Answers that Work' CUT TO:

19. INT. HOME DESK. DAY.

SOUND: on the same home desk seen previously, the phone keeps ringing. CUT TO:

20. EXT. STREET. SIDEWLAK. DAY.

LUCIO keeps walking, indifferent, along the sidewalk. CLOSE shot of LUCIO'S inexpressive look. CUT TO:

21. FULL FRAME:

A dark space, with glimpses of confused grey shades. SOUND: noises of objects being hit and dropping. CUT TO:

22. EXT. STREET. SIDEWALK. DAY.

CLOSE shot of LUCIO'S inexpressive look. CUT TO:

23. FULL FRAME:

Back to the dark space. SOUND: confused noises. CUT TO:

24. EXT. STREET. CEMETERY. DAY.

LUCIO walks along the railing of the local cemetery. As he keeps walking, he turns his head and looks at the various gravestones. He stops by and for a moment sets his eyes here and there at different gravestones, standing behind the enclosure. He lowers his eyes contemplatively to the sidewalk in front of him, while he rests one hand on the railing of the cemetery. CUT TO:

25. EXT. CITY BUILDING. DAY.

The clock on the building reads: noon. CUT TO:

26. EXT. CITY. DOWNTOWN. DAY.

Different PEOPLE eat their lunch: at a street corner, inside a patio, in a car. A YOUNG GIRL is feeding a large number of pigeons gathered around her, on a nearby traffic island with benches. CUT TO:

27. EXT. A NEIGHBORHOOD CORNER. DAY.

LUCIO walks up the streets of a neighborhood. He reaches an intersecting street showing a sign telling that the street has no exit. LUCIO stops and looks at it for a moment. He hesitates on what to do and turns his head around. On the other side of the street a GIRL holding a bag, is waiving at him to go over. LUCIO recognises her and goes to her. LONG shot: they greet each other. The GIRL pulls out a snack from her bag and offers it to LUCIO. LUCIO accepts it, breaks it into two pieces and hands a piece back to the GIRL. Then they both walk away. CUT TO:

28. EXT. STREET. BRIDGE. DAY.

LONG shot: LUCIO and the GIRL walk along the bridge together. They seem to be having a pleasant chat. CLOSE shot: LUCIO and the GIRL walk perpendicularly to the camera, entering the shot and exiting it. The camera catches a paper plane flying over the bridge. It floats in the air, slowly descending to the ground until it disappears. CUT TO:

29. INT. PRIVATE HOME. SUNSET.

LISA has come home. She switches on her answering machine, and then plunges herself on the armchair beside her. CLOSE shot of answering machine: LUCIO'S MESSAGE (v. o.) Hi Lisa, it's Lucio. Sorry for missing your call. Hmm... I... I didn't feel well... Hmm... I... had one of those odd feelings...you know, when you feel... I don't know how to explain it... Like a sense of loss... like a blackout, or something... I'm not sure... Some kind of unusual chemical reaction in my body... Who knows... I... I felt like I lost the meaning of everything... I mean I... I suddenly couldn't understand things properly... It's odd... not be able to give things a meaning, you know what I mean... Sorry I'm confusing you, Lisa... It's hard to explain... and I'm not sure if I'm using the right words... See, I felt like I was missing the whole thing, you know... like... like I needed someone to go over the basics again... teach me over again... tell me what life is all about... Ha, I don't know... I was totally confused... Anyway I met a friend of mine later... I talked to her, we laughed... and I started feeling better... Sorry I'm using up your tape... I might have to see a specialist... I'll talk to you later Lisa. Thank you... Bye. As the message ends, LISA turns her head towards the balcony window: at the sunset. She stares thoughtfully at the setting sun. Her expression turns from contemplative to one of admiration. The light slowly diminishes. Twilight soon begins.

FULL FRAME: setting sun.

FADE TO BLACK