Letter from Rome: Rediscovering Amelia Rosselli

A few weeks ago, I found myself wandering through an elegant Roman neighborhood. Small villas with wrought iron balconies overlooking lush gardens of palms and jasmine tucked behind high walls; Moorish arabesques of gold mosaic glinting from imposing facades. Purely residential, undisturbed by traffic or commerce, there was not a shop, café, or even a newspaper stand, and at that hour of the mid afternoon, not a soul about– only a cat or two, startled by my intrusion. Turning a corner, to my surprise I came upon a trestle table piled with books set up along the sidewalk, rather incongruous in such a classy neighborhood. The vendor looked like an outsider too, with his dirty jeans and pierced nose. He crouched in the shade of an entryway watching me as I thumbed through the yellowing pages of his books. They were mostly legal tomes, political philosophy, biographies of statesmen, illustrated with maps of countries whose names have changed, whose borders have been erased, all discarded from some judge’s library, perhaps from one of the ritzy homes in the vicinity. Someone had moved, or died, or simply needed space.

Then among those dull, worn covers, I noticed a slick grey jacket encasing a slim volume –that I instantly recognized, having once, years ago, owned a copy which I later gave away. It was Amelia Rosselli’s third, groundbreaking volume of poetry, Documento, published in 1976. This book, more than her earlier collections Variazioni Belliche and Serie  Ospedaliera introduced her work to a greater, admiring reading public, beyond the  writers, feminists, and the politically engaged who had already discovered her. One critic labeled it “A visceral cry uttered with precision.” Rosselli herself said of the collection that she had tried to address universal concerns beyond problems of the personal. The title itself is intriguing: “Documento” means of course, document, a documentation, a record of a true experience, and in daily usage, it also means: identity papers. This book, which aimed to go beyond the personal, was for her an act of self- identification. “I am not what I appear,” she wrote.  Those words resonated for many women in the late 60s and early 70s, when poetry in Italy, and indeed the entire literary and cultural establishment, seemed preponderantly male. Amelia Rosselli’s voice jarred; her grammar scandalized. Those who found her poems hard going protested her lack of “sense”, her weird imagery, her fragmented syntax, and the undercurrents of violence and excruciating pain bespeaking mental illness churning beneath the surface of her work.

             When Rosselli first published her startling poems, Phyllis Chester had not yet published Women and Madness, a frightening enquiry into why there are so many women in mental hospitals; into why some women’s normal reaction to a lifetime of stress as second-class citizens should be defined as pathological. Nor had Gilbert and Gubar published their seminal The Madwoman in the Attic connecting the language of madness with the narratives of female rebellion. Rosselli would, perhaps, have recognized herself in those pages in which myths of mental illness are challenged. 

            Amelia Rosselli committed suicide in Feburary 1996, throwing herself from the window of her tiny flat in the center of Rome, after a period of grave depression. Long before, she had been diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia, a pronouncement she never accepted. She was also diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease at the age of thirty-nine and may have suffered severe nerve damage as the aftermath of meningitis. Her fragility of nerves, treated twice with electroshock therapy, was, however, also the product of great traumas in her childhood. Her father was the celebrated anti-Fascist leader Carlo Rosselli, who was assassinated along with his brother Nello by order from Mussolini in 1937 when she was seven years old. Jewish, anti-fascist, stateless and in perennial exile, she grew up polyglot and intensely aware of the social- political reality of her times. She lived for a while in the United States and England, studying music which deeply influenced her use of language: “I have never separated the two disciplines,” she once wrote of poetry and music, “considering the syllable not only as an orthographic nexus, but as a sound – or the sentence not only as a grammatical construct, but as a system.”

Hers is a poetry of disarrangement, to use a term of Tony Hoagland’s, for it attempts to disarrange the reader’s consciousness, which she achieves by treating words as sounds, colors, impressions, combined to create textures, atmospheres, and mosaics of subliminal meaning  Her poems and prose writings are like magnetic clouds of whirling bits of metaphor and sound, suspended by the centrifugal force of an obsessive emotion.

            Until recently her work was known only to critics, connoisseurs and the cultural elite, rarely anthologized - perhaps because her language is so singular and difficult. Critic Alessandro Poleri has described it as “Pre-logical, primitive, shamanic.” But year by year, her reputation in Italy and abroad, has grown, and continues to grow. New publications keep appearing: notebooks and previously unpublished works, critical appreciations and biographical essays, Ph.D. theses, translations, and it seems, a forthcoming volume of her collected works is to be published by the prestigious Meridiani imprint of Mondadori, a sign that a writer has been welcomed into the canon of the greats.  Today she is recognized as a great modernist poet akin to Montale, Campana, Rimbaud, TS Eliot, Char, Akmatova, and Plath, with whom she strongly identified. The date of her suicide, Feb.11^th 1996, may have been intended to underline her feelings of kinship with Plath, whose work she had translated for the Meridiani series.

            The book in my hands is a perfectly clean first edition. No name scribbled inside the cover, no dog-eared pages to mark a favorite poem, nothing underlined. It looks as if it has rarely been opened, much less read; but the pages are stained by damp and give off a musty smell. It has probably been stored in a box in some dark cellar for years.  In its own way, this book is a little piece of my own story in this country where I came to live in 1978, and eke out a living as a literary translator. I was introduced to Rosselli’s poetry by her cousin, whom I knew briefly –but I never had the opportunity to meet the poet herself. Years and years ago, moving house in Rome, I sent my copy of Documento to a poet friend, who twenty years later, published a volume of translations of Rosselli’s work. In some small way I was a link in a chain - voices connecting to voices, words connecting to words to pass along a thread of experience.

*

The exquisite villas of this neighborhood dating from the twenties testify to the rise of Fascism in this country, the  oppressive, patriarchal system that destroyed Amelia Rosselli’s childhood happiness and marked her for life. The surrounding walls are ornate and silent, like the walls of tombs. No sign of the life unfolding within them flickers from the windows -- all is hidden behind a façade of order and reserve. Against all this, Rosselli smashed mirrors of complacency –inviting her readers to pick up the shards and see a sliver of their own pain and their own rebellion reflected in each jagged piece.

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The Ultimate Artichoke Recipe: Hearth-Roasted Artichokes

From April till mid May comes the peak of  artichoke season in Rome, giving us one last glorious feast  of this noble vegetable with its bitter, pungent taste of spring, its budding promise of summer bloom  which we devour with such gusto and not one iota of guilt.

So many places I love in Italy have their artichoke specialties    from the  bronze sunflower- like mandala of the  deep fried  carciofo  alla giudea – a traditional Roman delight found  in the famous restaurants of Rome’s ghetto, to the rustic,  filling artichoke and fava soups served at the  Pensione Isolabella  on the island  of Ventotene  on cold  stormy nights, when high seas spatter  the windows.     Or  the tiny pickled hearts of  the carciofi tardivi sometimes called  figli,  hardly bigger than a quail’s egg, blanched in vinegar,  seasoned with fennel, pepper, and preserved  in olive  oil  to be eaten as an accompaniment to  unsalted Tuscan  bread,   Or the chic, slimming salad of  thinly sliced raw artichokes and flakes of parmesan cheese, dressed with lemon and olive oil, which  they  used to serve years ago, at one of my favorite restaurants in  Rome Da Luigi    just around the corner from where I used to live near the Chiesa Nuova.

In my thirty years in Rome, I  have accumulated dozens of artichoke recipes for  spaghetti, crepes,  soups, garnishes,  involtini, quiches, stews,  torte rustiche, and phyllo dough concoctions,  but it was only recently that I happened upon what  I consider the  ultimate artichoke recipe:  the hearth-roasted artichoke, as suggested by hearth and wood oven expert, William Rubel, in his extraordinary cookbook dedicated to hearth cooking,  The Magic of Fire

The satisfaction given by cooking on an open hearth is something elemental and primeval, I suppose, stirring childhood memories of cook outs and campfires, fantasies of survival, of  living in a cabin hidden in the woods, of which Gaston Bachelard speaks so enticingly in his philosophical study of houses and habitation,  The Poetics of Space. If such reveries tickle your imagination,  Rubel’s  book, of which I will offer a fuller review on a later blog, will be perfect bedtime reading.   Here amid recipes of complex baking, roasting, and stewing techniques for the open hearth  used by our ancestors in the olden days, I came upon a page of suggestions for hearth-roasting a variety of vegetables, including artichokes.

The procedure is a simple one.  Get a fire roaring and let it burn down to a pile of embers, and while the flames are crackling,  prepare your artichokes for roasting.   First, wash the artichokes well, remove the stem,  and nip off the tip. With a knife, dig out any fluff from the core, but leave the outer leaves on.  Then beat the artichoke against a hard surface,  such as   a marble table top,  or kitchen counter   to flatten it a bit and open up the leaves.  Into the heart and in between the outer layer of leaves,  pack fresh herbs (tarragon, parsley, chives, fresh fennel, dill, fresh thyme, mint or mentuccia, the wild mint growing everywhere along country lanes in Italy, or santoreggia,  a wild herb that favors dry walls), slip in finely chopped garlic and capers, and then dribble olive oil in the heart and in between the leaves.  Using your fire thongs, nestle each artichoke right on the embers, and cocoon each artichoke with red hot embers.  The outer leaves will scorch, but the heart will cook slowly, and in roughly 20 -30 minutes, they’re done. Cooking time depends on the heat and quantity of embers.    Remove the artichokes, dust off the ashes, peel away the charred outer leaves, and voilà,   a unique  gastronomic experience.  The artichoke, slightly al dente, retains its characteristic pungent flavor  with the addition of a delicious smoky taste mingled with the aroma of  fresh herbs.  A wonderful accompaniment to grilled lamb.

More on Artichokes

Artichokes are renowned in Italy for their curative powers, especially the leaves, which French researcher Jean Valnet cites in his Cura delle Malattie con Ortaggi,  Frutta, e Cereali  as having  a beneficial effect on bile production, liver health, and cholesterol.  The many varieties of artichokes are akin to cardoons, and common thistles,  such as milk thistle, known  cardo mariano,  which, according to Mrs. M. Grieve’s  Modern Herbal  (1931) once upon time was commonly cultivated in the kitchen gardens of England as a salad plant. Artichokes seem to be on people’s minds lately.  Last week the authoritative VII International Symposium on the Artichoke, Cardoon, and their Wild Relatives   (The title itself strikes me as a poem) convened at the Università degli Studi della Tuscia )  http://www.enea.it/it/enea_informa/events/simposio-carciofo/viii-international-symposium-on-artichoke-cardoon-and-their-wild-relatives  ,  a recent blog by Mary Jane Cryan celebrates the Artichoke Festival of Ladispoli, providing interesting anecdotes about the history of this favorite vegetable, http://50yearsinitaly.blogspot.it/  while Sergio Baldassare offers a tutorial on Spaghetti ai Carciofi  on You Tube at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4EnxZDgbips&feature=relmfu

Goodbye Maria

M.  died last night. The call came around seven thirty this morning while we were having our wake up coffee. Sergio answered and M’s son told us the bad news, which alas, we were expecting, but not quite so soon. We had been to the hospital to see her just a few hours earlier, around six- thirty, that same evening.  I had called her around lunchtime  to let her know we were coming for a visit. Italian hospitals generally let patients keep their cell phones on in their rooms, since  the  patients’ rooms are  rarely equipped with extension phones.  She sounded alert, but gaspy. Weeks before she entered the hospital, her abdomen had become swollen with fluid, and in the last phase, this condition had made it hard for her to walk, move about freely, and then at last, breathe. She had no trouble recognizing me on the phone, though I had some difficulties understanding her speech.  Her mobile reception wasn’t good – her voice kept breaking up, and despite our long acquaintance, some of her speech mannerisms still baffled me.  M. was a country woman, from a town in the mountains outlying Rome.  Her speech was always peppered with dialect, and it always made her laugh when I couldn’t understand. She was able to tell me what room she was in, and what floor.  I asked her how she felt and she said she was in a bad way –  and that day she felt particularly nervous.
My husband came home as usual around three from the office and we had a quick lunch, and then we were off- along the Via Prenestina to the hospital where she had been admitted just three weeks ago.   The 542 bus trundled by – a line that runs through my neighborhood, and I thought I could visit her again sometime by bus.  We went in and followed the arrows to her ward and found a small crowd of people outside the door to her room. We had never personally met anyone in her family, except for one of her daughters-in-law – so they looked at us in surprised as we approached the door.   The curtains were drawn and the lights were dim – a priest stood by the bed administering her last rites.  We were just in time to approach the bed, touch her cheek, say  goodbye.  Her face was sunk in her pillow and she wore an oxygen mask. Her eyes didn’t open, but she was aware of what was happening in the room. I think she recognized us.  Her son told us that her condition had suddenly worsened in the early afternoon.
M. was a special presence in our home  -- house-helper,  seamstress, nurse, handywoman.  She could fix or mend just about anything, and when faced with a problem she had never dealt with before, she relied on her natural, practical intelligence to suggest a possible solution. She could rewire a lamp or a burnt out wall socket, mend a hole in the wall,  cut and sew a tailored suit,  – and had numerous remedies for household disasters: stains, rips, tears, leaks, drips – she knew how to make things new again. She was an expert seamstress.  I liked to design clothes for myself and my husband – and she made those ideas real – sewing him linen slacks and shirts – and for me woolen jackets, trousers for work, linen shifts for summer, and silk dresses.   Occasionally she baked for us – a wonderful Genovese white cake for a birthday celebration or jam tarts when someone had given us a jar or two of  homemade jam.   Always cheerful and companionable –I wouldn’t have called her motherly – but caring and sensitive – and she loved a challenge. Let’s make a slip cover for this chair, I’d say – and though she had never made one before, she figured out a way to do it. We always had a project going – and ideas for future ones, yards of upholstery and dress fabric stashed in the closet.  In this,  I suppose, I was reliving part of my bond with my mother: sewing projects of all kinds for clothes and for the house.   
M. lived in a village about an hour and a half from Rome – half way up the mountains – once known for its salubrious air.  For years, she worked in Rome, coming in daily by bus – then by metro or city bus – to reach the homes of the several families where she was employed a few hours each day.  That day in September I realized what a sacrifice it must have been for her for all those years, decades, to leave her home, and go to Rome every day to work, threading down the narrow mountain road on a bus that was often late.  Sometimes in bad weather, the road washed out and there was no getting through.
  When she told us that she had decided to give up working or coming into Rome, I was disappointed.  How would we get along without her?  I had also just recently transferred back to Rome after 22 years of commuting to Viterbo for work.  I had planned my schedule around M.’s weekly visits –her invalid brother lived not far from our neighborhood -- I hoped to organize a sewing lab with her on my free mornings off, so that we could finally get to work on some of those projects we had talked about.
Our last project was a series of curtains now decorating nearly every room in our flat.   Dark cherry velvet in the bedroom – fiery satin brocade in the living room and studio, crisp printed cotton in the kitchen.  All made with remnants, inspired by drapes I had seen in Paris at a friend’s home—we had recreated something similar for a few well-spent euros.  While we sewed in the little studio, I asked her about her life.  Though we often chatted and recounted stories to each other when she  was about, I had never asked her about her childhood and youth.   After fifth grade, she had been sent out to work for a seamstress, and had quickly distinguished herself from among the other girls as being quick and precise with her needle. As years passed, she realized though that the seamstress wasn’t going to teach them how to make patterns or cut clothes.  She kept her eyes opened and learned by watching – assisted by her extraordinary knack for anything manual.
Shortly before M. was admitted to the hospital where she died, we  drove over one September afternoon to visit her in her village.  She had been in and out of the hospital over the summer and was suffering from what seemed to be circulatory problems that had swollen her feet in an alarming way and created a layer of scaly eczema all up her leg. She was happy to be at home, cheerful, and though impeded in her movements by the circulatory problems, she was in good spirits and hopeful that her ailments would improve now that the summer heat was fading.  Her apartment was as expected, quiet, polished and neat. The balcony of her bedroom was crowded with potted plants, and herbs – a whole row of basil plants.  She served us coffee in her little kitchen – where she was especially proud of two things: the old treadle sewing machine she still used –and a small woodstove with oven. The building, and her apartment were equipped with city gas – she had an ordinary gas cooking range in the kitchen, and radiators throughout the apartment. But there was nothing she liked better than to light the woodstove on a cold winter afternoon, open the sewing machine, and sit there sewing till late in the evening – maybe keeping an eye on a batch of cookies in the oven, or stirring a pot of tomato sauce simmering on the stovetop. 
M. laughed and talked loudly, wore garish clothes, hennaed her hair at home in an unattractive way, and  had become grossly overweight in the last few years.  She was not chic. Yet she had beautiful blue eyes, full pink lips curled in a pleasant half smile. One thing I used to notice when I’d come home before my husband, and M. had been in and gone to help with the cleaning.  There was a silence throughout the rooms, a sense of order and peace.  Not that everything was spic and span, dustless, smudgeless,  for it wasn’t. Yet the quality of attention she brought to household chores left a trace my husband and I could feel. 
On this unseasonably cold October day, the sun is shining, but there’s a chill wind. The noon sun filters in through the drapes M. made, filling the room  where I sit with warmth and rich color.

an update on Jeanne Hébuterne

An update on Jeanne Hebuterne

After my essay Missing Person in Montparnasse  The Case of Jeanne Hebuterne was published in the Literary Review nearly ten years ago, I have received requests from time to time regarding information about JH , her artwork, and her relationship to Modigliani.  Since that time, I have had an opportunity to pursue my research and this looks like as good a venue as any to share what I know.

My essay was inspired by a visit to an exhibition Modigliani ed I suoi ( Modigliani & company) held in Venice  and curated by Christian Parisot,  recognized authority on Modigliani and long time collaborator with  Jeanne Modigliani, daughter of Jeanne Hebuterne and Modigliani.  The core of that exhibition which sent a ripple of delight  round the world were the artworks of young Jeanne – several sketches and paintings. It was revealed that JH was indeed a very gifted  artist whose work had value in itself, and not just because of her  link to Modigliani.  The Venice show was the first public viewing of her work in 80 years. After Jeanne’s suicide all her artworks  had been collected by her brother and locked away in his studio.  It was Jeanne Modigliani who had first ferreted  this story  out and who throughout her life had worked tirelessly to strip away the legend of Modigliani as “drunken woman-basher”  and Jeanne as a silent, sacrificial lamb and  passive model.   Jeanne Modigliani  desired ardently to re-establish her connection with her mother as artist and to free her from the oblivion which the Hebuternes had imposed upon her.  It took her entire lifetime.

The documents and artworks exhibited in the Venice show seem to have come mainly from two sources:  Jeanne Modigliani who had then transmitted them to her archivist, Parisot, and the heirs of  Andre Hebuterne, Jeanne's older brother.   I should mention here that at one time the Hébuternes publicly claimed that no such work of Jeanne’s existed – that it had all been dispersed after her death. That however seems to be untrue, and after his death at the age of 90, the veils were lifted.

The  pieces in the Venice show were  scheduled  to be exhibited  in  Segovia  where  an unexpected event then occurred.  Claims were made that some pieces in the show were fakes, the police closed it down and the curator was charged with art forgery.

It is  this news  that Jeffrey Meyers appends to  his biography of Modigliani – with a dismissive note on Jeanne’s art : “Jeanne Hebuterne ‘s nephew said that works supposedly by her and exhibited in Segovia were fakes.”   This would suggest that JH was no artist. Indeed he goes on to say:” Marc Restellini…then co-director of the Musée du Luxembourg  in Paris had identified a number of fake drawings and reduced their value to a negligible amount.”  What actually came out in the proceedings of the trial were that some drawings shown in Segovia were thought to be copies of originals drawn by JH, while others “pastiches” – compositions not drawn by Jeanne at all.  What had happened was that after the Venice show, the Hebuterne heirs declined  to lend the works for further exhibition.   At  the  show in Segovia the curator exhibited other works which had  come into his possession independently of the Hebuterne heirs and it was these works which were subjected to inquiry.   

Restellini,  the expert who had identified the drawings as fakes  then became the curator of another show of the  Hebuterne materials  organized  in Japan.  He  is the author of a book about  Jeanne and Modigliani which includes in the back a  catalogue raisonné of JH’s works.  His research bears out what Jeanne Modigliani and Parisot had stressed all along – it was not only passion for each other that linked  Jeanne to Modigliani  but their shared passion for art.

A comparative study of REstellini and Parisot’s findings  reveals that despite their mutual rivalry – they draw a similar picture of JH and Modì -  attempting to remove the fabrications overlaid upon the pair by the sensational memoirs published after their death   by friends and acquaintances such as Andre Salmon.  Like Parisot, Restellini grants Jeanne individual status as an artist of promise and merit.

In his book, we discover that Jeanne and Modi often painted the same subjects – ie – when someone came to sit for a portrait, Jeanne and Modi  would sometimes both work at the same time in the studio – so that we have a  second perspective   on some of Modigliani’s portraits.  These doubles – ie  portraits of the same people  painted by  both Modi and Jeanne,  allow us to grasp Jeanne’s independent research as a painter  and appreciate her unique sensibility.  She was particularly sensitive to  background, décor, fashion  --the very things Modigliani  left out of his portraits --  and includes details of this nature in her work. In fact it is through her drawings and paintings that we may catch a   glimpse of the studio where they lived and worked together.

Certainly Jeanne Modigliani would be pleased to know that one of her wishes has been granted. The world has come to know Jeanne Hébuterne not only as Modì’s favorite model –but as an artist with an agenda  of her own.

Tea with Pier Isa and the Witches of Montecchio

Tea with Pier Isa and the Witches of Montecchio Part 2

Several years ago I received a curious phone call from an Italian author seeking a translator for her  novel about the witches of Montecchio – based on a true story, she insisted, for which historical documents exist.  Montecchio  is a sort of plateau in the highlands above  Bagnaia near Viterbo (Bagnaia is the site of the famous Villa Lante) – an isolated wooded area, unfrequented, except , probably, by boar and mushroom hunters. Like many wild spots in Tuscia, it is the site of several prehistoric stone monuments , left to molder  amid scrub and brambles.   I don’t remember the name of that author: she never called back again, but she had put a buzz in my ear – the witches of Montecchio – who might they have been?   Now and again over the years, fleeting bits of information about them came my way.   Last year, around Halloween, I posted what I knew about them in a blog, posted in the Red Room, and also on my website, http://www.lindalappin.net/

The  Irish poet  John Montague has written:  All around, shards of a lost tradition/ Scattered over the hills, tribal-And placenames, uncultivated pearls/ The whole landscape a manuscript/We had lost the skill to read/A part of our past disinherited/But fumbled, like a blind man/Along the fingertips of instinct.  That’s how I feel about the area of Tuscia. The whole territory of Viterbo is riddled with ruins – not only  the Etruscan tombs explored by Harriet in my novel  The Etruscan, but Pre- Etruscan altars – like the  step pyramids near Vitorchiano,  the prehistoric cave dwellings near Corviano,  the megaliths and other  eerie monuments  scattered all throughout the  Selva di Malano,  and many Neolithic sites.   Many sites are hidden,  disguised by overgrowths of vegetation, half buried in earth, entangled by the roots of trees, even sunk at the bottom of volcanic lakes.   

My first novel, The Etruscan, was an attempt to transmit the fascination I experienced myself in these places, and my more recent novels, including  Signatures in Stone, set in Bomarzo, and The Brotherhood of Miguel, also make use of this material.    What is most amazing to me about these places is that they are totally abandoned and forgotten, except by a few local historians, enthusiasts, and  occasional hikers.  There even seems to be a taboo connected to them. They inspire fear in the local population.  Researching some of the areas I describe in The Etruscan, I was astonished to learn that the old Roman bath located within the archaeological park of Barbarano Romano  had previously been regarded by the locals as the entryway to hell, and an extremely dangerous place to visit simply because the only access to this sunny thermal bath site carved on a ledge along a canyon wall, was through a dark, mossy  staircase cut in stone leading  down into the earth.

The stories told about Montecchio are similar – Local legend  claims that  snakes there do not hibernate, so that even in winter one is at risk.  Moreover,    it is home to a special snake with a huge head – as large as human head, or so the legend goes – absolutely terrifying if you run into one.   Such legends make you wonder about their origins---  were they merely a pretense to keep people away from areas where secret rites, frowned upon by the church,  were practiced, or do they represent the  performers of those rites who have been transformed by legend into snakes?  Throughout  the world’s mythologies, snakes represent  cosmic  energy and transformation.  Perhaps the legend means that in Montecchio those energies may be perceived and tapped? There is no doubt that the witches of Montecchio were related to some ancient fertility rite sacred to the Great Mother, for among the prehistoric monuments located in the area are a birthing trough and a  rounded menhir similar to  fertility monuments in India.

Last Sunday in Vitorchiano, I had an interesting guest at tea time, Pier Isa della Rupe,  a local writer,  painter, storyteller and researcher  who has spent years studying the witches and the area of Montecchio and who occasionally organizes special esoteric excursions to visit the place.   Among the things she unearthed  in her research was the documented evidence regarding the existence  of a female “confraternity”  -- which owned property on Montecchio in the middle ages, and operated in the area with an authority and power ( indeed they owned property)  unthinkable for women at the time.   What was the origin of that authority  and power? Was it connected in any way to the high regard Etruscan culture had once held women?  Could such a cultural attitude towards women have survived and been passed down through so many centuries from Etruscan times to the middle ages in that small corner of Italy?   

Whatever those women did up in  the woods of Montecchio – they were part of a secret tradition scattered throughout central Italy. Mont’ Amiata – another mysterious place on the border between Tuscia and Tuscany, also has a rich tradition of witches frequenting wooded areas where prehistoric monuments are located.  It is to this tradition that Charles Leland refers in his book  Etruscan Roman Remains. What Leland reveals was that  pagan, specifically, Etruscan religious beliefs and customs, which he describes as the Old religion,  continued to thrive in Italy into the nineteenth century, especially in the area of Tuscany,  passed down and disguised in many ways:  in stories, nursery rhymes, decoration, plant-lore, superstitions connected to animals, places, plants, healing, dowsing   etc. And so it is today – some of those beliefs still live on –slightly transformed , for example,  the belief that certain places  possess special powers that may be transmitted to people who visit them for this purpose.  In any case, as Pier della Rupe informs me – not anyone can visit Montecchio–for people  with negative  feelings or influences will be rooted to the spot, unable to go further,  legs so heavy they cannot  move.  So if by any chance you think you might want to visit the witches of Montecchio -  don’t go alone, and keep an eye out for snakes.

Linda Lappin gingerly tests the waters of the blogosphere

Yes, I have other blogs -- one on amazon, where I occasionally make posts related to my books that are sold there -- and another on my website, which is essentially a showcase for my books, published articles, interests, and events -- Usually in that blog, I post short essays about my life in Italy which have been published elsewhere,  or postcards, notes specifically about the history, culture, cuisine of Tuscia that remarkable corner of Italy where I have my get-away place and where Centro Pokkoli organizes its writers workshops and retreats. But a real blog, done as a  daily discipline, honestly telling it like it is, for better and for worse -- the shades and light --well I have never gotten very far with that.  Partly because  I am a terrible perfectionist. I can work on a 1500 word essay for weeks - blogs are not like that, however. You can't take that much time to shape and hone them.

Sometimes, seeing my enchanted little house in Tusica, or learning that I teach English at an Italian university and travel frequently to exotic places like Sardinia or Crete - people have expressed envy -- and yes, I am lucky, I have been blessed in many ways -- but there are always two sides to every coin. And Italy nowadays isn't a place only of pleasure and delight.

Years ago I sat in a piazza with a poet friend of mine, much older than me, who like me had first come to Rome on a Fulbright, and had considered staying here when his grant finished, but then went back to the US to conduct an illustrious career as a poet, man of letters, distinguished professor, critic, and translator.  I've always wondered, he said, what it would have been like if I stayed.

Well obviously, his life wouldn't have necessarily worked out like mine has.  Still maybe this blog might go some ways in showing what it's like to be an expat, an expat fairly integrated into another cultural system, and an expat who aspires to be a writer.

-it's a sort of schizoid life-  I have a multiple identity as writer, translator, teacher, journalist  and live in two houses, fortunately, with only one husband ---

I'll be talking about a little of everything here.  Daily life, shopping, food & family   politics,  the scarier things about Rome and Italy lately, travel, friends, recipes, culture shock, culture clashes, writing, and books. I'll close here for the moment. It's time to step into my kitchen and think about the dinner I have planned for tonight- a rich fish soup on a cold, windy day.