| Naples: Life, Death & Miracles
|There is recent (2015) section called allegro ma non troppo
Through the Eyes of...
Sea and Sardinia
In spite of the controversy that for many years surrounded some of the work of English author, David Herbert Richards Lawrence (1885 – 1930), his novels, plays, poetry and critical essays are now valued as significant contributions to English literature in the 20th century. He is certainly viewed as one of the best travel writers, which is my concern here. Lawrence published Sea and Sardinia in 1921 (Thomas Seltzer, New York). It is an account of a voyage from Sicily to and through parts of the island of Sardinia. The book contains the following chapters: I. As far as Palermo; II. The Sea; III. Cagliari; IV. Mandas; V. To Sorgono; VI. To Nuoro; VII. to Terranova and the Steamer; VIII. Back. If you just want to read about Sardinia, you might jump in anywhere and start reading, but if you want a taste of Lawrence's style to whet your appetite, you might as well start at the beginning. Below are two short excerpts: the first, indeed, is the very beginning of the book and takes place before the voyage; it is concerned with Sicily and specifically, Mt. Etna; the second is from the chapter "To Sorgono." Sea and Sardinia contains a map drawn by Lawrence and eight color illustrations by Jan Juta (1895 - 1990), one of which is reproduced below. It is the illustration at the beginning of the chapter, "To Sorgono."
COMES over one an absolute necessity to move. And what is more, to move in some particular direction. A double necessity then: to get on the move, and to know whither.
Why can't one sit
still? Here in Sicily it is so pleasant: the
sunny Ionian sea, the changing jewel of
Calabria, like a fire-opal moved in the light;
Italy and the panorama of Christmas clouds,
night with the dog-star laying a long,
luminous gleam across the sea, as if baying at
us, Orion marching above; how the dog-star
Sirius looks at one, looks at one! he is the
hound of heaven, green, glamorous and fierce!
—and then oh regal
evening star, hung westward flaring over the jagged dark
precipices of tall Sicily: then Etna, that
wicked witch, resting her thick white snow
under heaven, and slowly, slowly rolling her
orange-coloured smoke. They called her the
Pillar of Heaven, the Greeks. It seems wrong
at first, for she trails up in a long,
magical, flexible line from the sea's edge to
her blunt cone, and does not seem tall. She
seems rather low, under heaven. But as one
knows her better, oh awe and wizardry! Remote
under heaven, aloof, so near, yet never with
us. The painters try to paint her, and the
photographers to photograph her, in vain. Because
why? Because the near ridges, with their
olives and white houses, these are with us.
Because the river-bed, and Naxos under the
lemon groves, Greek Naxos deep under
dark-leaved, many-fruited lemon groves, Etna's
skirts and skirt-bottoms, these still are our
world, our own world. Even the high villages
among the oaks, on Etna. But Etna herself,
Etna of the snow and secret changing winds,
she is beyond a crystal wall. When I look at
her, low, white, witch-like under heaven,
slowly rolling her orange smoke and giving
sometimes a breath of rose-red flame, then I
must look away from earth, into the ether,
into the low empyrean. And there, in that
remote region, Etna is alone. If you would see
her, you must slowly take off your eyes from
the world and go a naked seer to the strange
chamber of the empyrean. Pedestal of heaven!
The Greeks had a sense of the magic truth of
things. Thank goodness one still knows enough
about them to find one's kinship at last.
There are so many photographs, there are so
infinitely many water-colour drawings and oil
paintings which purport to render Etna. But
pedestal of heaven! You must cross the
invisible border. Between the foreground,
which is our own, and Etna, pivot of winds in
lower heaven, there is a dividing line. You
must change your state of mind. A
metempsychosis. It is no use thinking you can
see and behold Etna and the foreground both at
once. Never. One or the other. Foreground and
a transcribed Etna. Or Etna, pedestal of
[and this from the chapter "To Sorgono"]
...We are struggling now among the Gennargentu spurs. There is no single peak —no Etna of Sardinia. The train, like the plough, balances on the steep, steep sides of the hill-spurs, and winds around and around. Above and below the steep slopes are all bosky. These are the woods of Gennargentu. But they aren't woods in my sense of the word. They are thin sprinkles of oaks and chestnuts and cork-trees over steep hill-slopes. And cork-trees! I see curious slim oaky-looking trees that are stripped quite naked below the boughs, standing brown-ruddy, curiously distinct among the bluey grey pallor of the others. They remind me, again and again, of glowing, coffee-brown, naked aborigines of the South Seas. They have the naked suavity, skin-bare, and an intense coffee-red colour of unclothed savages. And these are the stripped cork-trees. Some are much stripped, some little. Some have the whole trunk and part of the lower limbs ruddy naked, some only a small part of the trunk.
It is well on in the afternoon. A peasant in black and white, and his young, handsome woman in rose-red costume, with gorgeous apron bordered deep with grass-green, and a little, dark-purple waistcoat over her white, full bodice, are sitting behind me talking. The workmen peasants are subsiding into sleep. It is well on in the afternoon, we have long ago eaten the meat. Now we finish the white loaf, the gift, and the tea. Suddenly looking out of the window, we see Gennargentu's mass behind us, a thick snow-deep knot-summit, beautiful beyond the long, steep spurs among which we are engaged. We lose the white mountain mass for half an hour: when suddenly it emerges unexpectedly almost in front, the great, snow-heaved shoulder.
How different it is from Etna, that lonely, self-conscious wonder of Sicily! This is much more human and knowable, with a deep breast and massive limbs, a powerful mountain-body. It is like the peasants...
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