150. Al Gianicolo, including statues and heroes
Garibaldi in Rome, very tall, motionless, as if floating in the sunset. From the top of the Gianicolo hill, he looks a horse on the night that is not worthy of a look at the Vatican. Rome glitters Capital view from up there, and insecure as a tenant under eviction. The Dome of the pope's nest supreme king, the Quirinal with the flag on the flagpole taller, besieged by a thousand terraces with verandas semi-abusive anodized aluminum, just beyond his classroom with the Deputies' dull and gray, never became Westminster Foundation a nation. Come, come, you want to go away from Rome. Provincial city distressed by old imperial ruins. Garibaldi wanted the capital, but even then there were those who feared the trappolone. Massimo D'Azeglio wrote: "The environment surrounding the impregnated miasma of 2500 years of violence materials and moral pressures exerted by its successive governments on the world, does not seem the most suitable to infuse health and life in the government of an Italy young, new, based on common law. "Today, Rome is the heart of a country that fails to become an adult, and fully secular Europe. Walk to the Gianicolo and only here, I try to forget the miseries of a neglect ugly city, a nation that forgets how did and does the accounts to an accountant on public holidays. In floating yellow light histories and monuments. I scan the poor Garibaldi, put there by Mussolini, then become effigy rallies the left after the war, pulled his poncho by all parties. Crossing the bronze of his wife Anita who just gallops away with a baby and a gun in hand. Galoppa even if the horse (the sesquicentennial hooray!) stands only as a scaffold lopsided. But she also cares about the world of weeds, the cones of pizza, chewing gum. It 's the cure for the Italian hero, do the monument, plaque, street, building, desk, conference, stamp. Embalmed so if you can safely forget. And then, there may be some hero in a country like my cynical? In the midst of this army of statues falling brancaleone salt anger me, it is true that we are a country servant, a "factory of obedience," and I look at the first page of a newspaper thrown on the floor and I think that was right Monicelli, this otherwise you go out only with a revolution, it might be the only way to really make a party of Italy, a new Renaissance. But it felt as if a thousand voices telling his father that old saying, "do not be partisan", that is, for inviting me to reason, calm, composure, not to take things to impetuosity, breast, not to vote on them failure. From here, look over Rome, its busy streets that look like a crazy ant, flags and crosses on the tops of buildings as an archipelago of sand. If it were seen from Italy would be "a country too long," Ruffolo definition of "woman of the provinces" or "brothel", as already attested to the great poets on school books, Dante and Petrarch and Boccaccio, or only "a geographical expression" as Metternich said, or as many think Foreigners still a physical place full of beautiful sites and monuments worthy of interest in spite of its inhabitants. But we who live inside us that we live, we who are forced to scrub the hills populated with monuments, we are forced to a different perspective. While accepting and nurturing the idea of \u200b\u200bthe beautiful country, we have to deal with what is wrong. And a force to reckon, we usually think Italy as a place of rhetoric, a vessel that has everything a useful metaphor to talk about other things. When the appointment is always necessary to specify which Italy: that Italy as a state, if Italy as malpractice, as if Italy national football team, and so on. Understood and pleonastic But one point remains: Italy is not us. We admire the saints and sailors, sorry for the brain drain, those who seek their destiny elsewhere. Seen from above, Italy looks like the island of Lost, and us to his survivors. A place alien to its inhabitants, elusive and ambiguous, even when it seems to do us good, a place to scramble to find a way to escape. One thing to turn in the third person. The island is this, the island does that. Italy is so, Italy is there. In the stillness of the sunset, from the Roman hill, I see the statues of the heroes of the Risorgimento, Mazzini and Pisacane and Mameli, Saffi, and Armellini, quell'effimera to the fallen Roman Republic of 1849 whose Constitution had a terrific opening words he said "Sovereignty is for the eternal right people," the stern faces of kids who look like men, now all covered by cellophane wrapping of an imminent restoration, without them even in a forest of solitude. 
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