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"burn while waiting for a letter." Neera, the correspondence, sometime.

great lover of the papers of the eighteenth century, by which "all those who could hold a pen in his hand," wrote the history, Neera know the use of the epistle. Among the poems that public but does not collect, it puts in five series with this title: Letter , so that when the Sormani quotes a verse of the first and she recognizes all in that "cry out in tears and sobs," says something important for the status of this correspondence.
For the reader, is the point of view from which the soul is more gradually discovered that the writer is abandoned to disorder, to evade the rules of the form. Disappears in the year date, month, even on the day, replaced by vague or precise, but time always intimate, "the same day - 5:30 am, late at night later [...] [...] once again, "" Saturday night - pre 11, "even the incipit is back and as tiny as to renew a speech:" I wanted to tell you what ...". Alberto Meanwhile, the letters become paper, foglioni , sheets, cheat sheet stuck "doi instead that" legitimize started the first ", and pieces of paper -" and so many different pieces of paper "-, just as the first verses of youth who sends him" only as a curiosity " , as they are written on the card he stole from the attic, "half sheets attached to letters of the last century, a written notarial business.



[...] The letter does not know enough to say the impossibility of being a body suffers . With the trend anxious, suspension, and twists back and forth: "Ah your words your words ... I come out from reading your pages crushed [...] the deepest impression is that of a pain burn [...] waiting for a letter ...".

[...]

The excess of women feel - the pain in joy - nell'afasia borders. The woman closed Soul Neera only borrow the words of Amiel ("I know enough to express it seems to me a few times profane"), but it's as if they were his. He met with a similar expression in the poems of idealistic Russian Tjutcev. Reading "The exprimée est déjà une pensée mensogne," writes Sormani I recall that she has already said: "Every word written is a sham." Turbatissima by such coincidence of words in one verse, he takes as a sign of destiny: "And you remember how you liked it when I read it before you know me Nobody ever told me about that line. You just .

(from Anna Folli, read Pens, Milano, Guerini, 2000, pp. 25-27.)