Sherwood Anderson and "Stories of Ohio"
Sherwood Anderson (1876-1941), with its bare and essential way of writing has not only influenced (with Gertrude Stein) the best American writers the "lost generation" (Ernest Hemingway, William Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald, John Steinbeck and others), leaving precious literary texts. He did something very delicate and important in human terms, something which produces in us a sense of gratitude and friendship that go beyond the level of esteem that we have for his talent as an artist of words.
Many writers describe with great skill inner events that their characters do not understand and that they themselves do not understand. And that we consider in danger of "deep" or "human" are just as twisted and hide from these really deep aspects of human beings. The literature, unfortunately, often reflects an ability of writers to hear, which is typically limited or distorted by internal closures and this tends to hide more than to "reveal" the true nature of people. The theme is
intriguing, but now I want to limit myself to talk about a book that reveals Anderson is a rare literary talent, both have great respect for people and their inner dimension. Tales Ohio (1919, tr. Com. Einaudi, Torino, 1950 repr. 1971), shakes our senses from the first pages, I want to make some tracks.
"The old writer, like everyone else in the world, had gathered in his mind during his long life, many thoughts. In the old days was really a handsome man, and a good number of women were in love with him. In addition, of course, had known many, many people had known that way individually lingerie that is different from the way you and I know the people. At least that is what the writer thought, and he liked to think. You can blame the old for what he thinks?
in bed the writer had a dream that was not a dream. While still awake, he was about to fall asleep, began to appear in his eyes of the figures (...) It is understood that the whole point of what is in the figures that paraded before the eyes of the writer. They were all caricatures. All men and all women who had known the writer had turned into caricatures. Not all the cartoons were bad. There were plenty of fun, almost beautiful or beautiful (…).
Per un’ora la processione delle caricature sfilò davanti agli occhi del vecchio; poi, sebbene fosse per lui un’impresa penosa, il vecchio scese dal letto e si mise a scrivere. Qualcuna di quelle caricature gli aveva fatto un’impressione profonda ed egli desiderava descriverla.
A tavolino, lo scrittore lavorò per un’ora. Alla fine scrisse un libro che chiamò Il libro delle caricature . Non fu mai pubblicato, ma io lo vidi una volta e ne ebbi un’impressione incancellabile. C’era nel libro un pensiero centrale, molto singolare, che mi è sempre rimasto in mente (…) Il pensiero, naturalmente, non era espresso, ma una semplice esposizione it would sound more or less as follows:
In the beginning, when the world was young there were many thoughts but there was no such thing as a truth. The man fabricated the truth and all truth was composed by a large number of inaccurate thoughts. So worldwide there were truth. And they were wonderful.
The old man had listed hundreds of truths in his book. I will not try to relate them all. There were the truth of virginity and the truth of passion, the truth of that wealth and poverty, modesty, and of waste, indifference and enthusiasm. Hundreds and hundreds were the truths, and they were wonderful. Then came the people. Everyone, just appeared, he threw himself on one of truth and seized it, and some are very strong, came to own a dozen at a time.
were the truth that turns people into grotesque caricatures. The old man had his complex theory about it. It was his opinion that when someone took possession of a truth, and said that that was the truth and tried to live according to it, then he turned into a caricature, and he embraced the truth, a lie "(pp. . 8-10).
The author thus ends, abruptly, a reflection on our ability to hide what we are, clinging eagerly to its certainties. He leaves us, then, with no certainty at the end of the series of stories dedicated to various inhabitants of Winesburg, a small town in Ohio. Without certainty, but with a sense of warmth. Perhaps with the "soft certainty" that every person is a world made of subjectivity and lived life to this intense and full of value. Anderson does not tell us much about his characters, sets them quickly, leaving the task of filling in the blanks with our imagination and our tenderness. He will "show" things "private" without ever afford to "eviscerate" or "explain". As if they were too fragile to be "manipulated" by the words.
Each chapter of the book is devoted to one of the inhabitants of Winesburg and the stories are stories of people often quite confusing. Some are disturbed on the mental plane, while others are representative of the "Falling Down". "Today, a farmer by the stove in the shop in his village has his head filled up to overflowing, the words of others. Filled newspapers and magazines gliel'hanno. Gone forever is a lot of ignorance of that ancient beast that was, at the same time, a kind of beautiful childlike innocence "(pp. 58-59).
In any case the author is not sparing and does not justify no one while digging in unresolved situations, unnecessarily held up illusions and various types of discomfort. However, while refraining from justifying also refrains from condemning. Avoid taking paternalistic attitude of many writers (and directors of several) by which the human frailties are surgically dissected without passion and without compassion. Anderson tries to tell rather than with the lives of those who understand that every choice crucial part of human beings in an existential project, maybe confused or illusory, but it felt necessary. A project that in many cases should be reviewed and corrected, but until that is still kept alive by intense feelings, even if not included.
E 'mild stroke this philosophy that the author, combined with a style maddeningly "essential", allows us to "get on tiptoe" in this life, sometimes isolated from other, sometimes intermingled with the others, but always "lived ". Behind this attitude there is an idea of \u200b\u200bwho the author quietly trying to convey. Since the story first, Anderson said that despite his age, the writer had something inside him that he was young and that was vital. It was "like a pregnant woman" (p. 8) and it is this "young thing" was responsible for that kind of dream that inspired her new book.
It seems to me that Anderson had this conviction in every person, even the most obscure, there is a core of vitality, awareness and sensitivity that makes his precious life. This idea, strongly endorsed, in my opinion directs the sequence of words in the stories and allows us to understand both the madness, the depth of the characters carved on the pages.
One thing must be recognized: the book's characters do not stand for wisdom, but through their lives in the grip of confused ideas, false certainties, illusions, and in many cases bordering on insanity or you sink. This unites the author with other great writers and would really like to scholars is not in itself a sign of deep and authenticity. Human life is crossed by the pain, as well as joy, and so it is not treated with respect by writers who tell stories of low-level elementary or rude, is not true that a deep history must necessarily be the story of a twisted mind. This misconception is often based on the division between literature "serious" (what is art) and the literature of low-level (which is just commercial). The same can be said for the film.
In fact, the narratives (literary or film) are of high artistic level as far as "well told" what they say, regardless of content developed. Francis Scott Fitzgerald writes in a charming inner stories often horribly banal (the torments of young people confused and aspirations to the "success" of people not "arrived", etc...) As an artist he ranks among the greatest, but as a teacher of life often remains on the surface. Why the "content" or "message" of a narrative should not be superficial as well as knowing how to tell the author has also "something" to tell. In this case, the sentimental novels or polizeschi, we do not generally lead nowhere, except to the desired marriage or the discovery of the murderer. The novels 'real', however, speak of the real life of people and thus of their emotions, their inner battles. Here falls the ass perché non sta scritto da nessuna parte che le battaglie interiori debbano necessariamente essere costituite da tormenti moralistici o da ambivalenze psicologiche.
L'idea dell'uomo "lacerato", "contorto", "confuso" non è un'idea "profonda" ma un'idea fasulla che nasce a sua volta da una lacerazione, da idee contorte e da emozioni confuse. Ciò che rende "tragica", nell'accezione seria del termine, la vita umana non è la presenza di disturbi psicologici, ma la consapevolezza dell'inevitabile compresenza di gioia e dolore nella trama dell'esistenza [cfr. il POST Salvatore Natoli e la felicità possibile ]. E' quindi irrilevante che una storia filosoficamente Mature is linear or complex, or that has a happy ending or a sad end. What makes "human" a story is the awareness of the characters and the fact that they accept and show their humanity, their weaknesses and their strengths, their limitations and their viability. The torments moralistic or lack of awareness of psychological conflicts are passed off as "depth". The final "enriched" by thoughts of suicide or depression are the expression of insensitivity to the real human suffering and not the expression of a "special sensitivity".
These considerations lead us to the question: what enriches us when we read a book or watch a movie? The good level of expression (or "art") of work allows us to deal with the content (more or less deep) in ways particularly touching. The more the story we "surprise", it "shakes," he "kidnapped", the more rich and able to touch deep chords. Then there are the contents: they are more rational and emotionally balanced, more enable us to understand and feel things in life the characters that really concern our lives.
A story (well told, if possible) helps us to live if he reveals the painful things that really do not want to see, but also helps us to understand if we can make it hard to recognize that potential, taken as we are, often, by ' idea to still be unaware of the children. On the content, and then a literary (or film) is "human" to the extent to which these unpleasant things or where it has a devastating end, but to the extent that it expresses a genuine compassion for our little lives and to the extent which helps us to understand that we will always live with freedom, dignity and respect.
Returning to Anderson's story, I would highlight the good side of this masterpiece, in my opinion, is that both in the arts, both on the "philosophical". It 's true that most of the stories told are stories of personal failings, of resignation, of obstinacy or mental confusion. The author, however, do not wallow in this stuff. The crosses bearing in mind that people have that "young thing" in their deepest inner self and not "are" caricatures "become" caricatures when they betray themselves eagerly to throw on some "truth." E 'then the first story to give us the key to all the others. The penultimate story reinforces this view: in fact, George and Helen, two children who have experienced this confusion that so often paralyzes the young, are able to meet without falsehood and show that we can always overcome our fears and our fantasies.
"So it was that came down the hill. In the darkness began to play like two splendid young things in a young world. Once, running forward, Helen George did stumble and fall. He rolled over and laughed. Always laughing loudly, threw himself down the hill. Helen ran after him. For a moment he stood in the dark. You can not know what thoughts to the woman over the head, it is certain that when he arrived at the bottom and reached the boy, took his arm and walked beside him, with great dignity in silence. For reasons that have not been able to explain, both had, from the quiet evening spent together, the thing they needed. Men's or boys or girls, had a moment to grasp the secret of what makes life possible to the men and women ... "(p. 237).
Gianfranco
